


Visions from Beyond

by Silbrith



Series: Caffrey Conversation [16]
Category: Cthulhu Mythos - Fandom, Cthulhu Mythos - H. P. Lovecraft, White Collar
Genre: Gen, Mystery, Science Fiction & Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-08
Updated: 2016-07-13
Packaged: 2018-07-12 01:28:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 42,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7078861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silbrith/pseuds/Silbrith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>September 1975. A new term has begun at Miskatonic University in Arkham, Massachusetts. Neal, an assistant professor of linguistics, is completing his first week of teaching classes when he makes a fateful decision. White Collar characters include: Neal, Peter, Elizabeth, Mozzie, Diana, June, and Sara. Arkham Files story #1, where Caffrey Conversation AU characters are fused into the world of the Cthulhu Mythos and science fiction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Silent Raindrops

_Notes: A fusion of White Collar with the world of the Cthulhu Mythos as envisioned by H.P. Lovecraft and others. White Collar characters retain their same first names. No canon knowledge of either White Collar or Lovecraft is necessary. Please refer to notes at the end of the chapter for more background information._

**Arkham, Massachusetts. September 12, 1975. Friday morning.**

He had another dream last night.

This one was more vivid than any he'd experienced before. He awoke shaking and exhausted—catapulted out of an abyss of unspeakable horror. Unearthly shapes loathsome beyond man's ability to comprehend. . . . No, he dared not describe what he'd seen, what he'd smelled, what he'd heard. But the thin sound of insane piping echoed still in his mind and the pervasive stench lingered in his nostrils. Rubbing his eyes, he muttered, "Just a dream."

He got out of bed and wrapped himself in a robe, for the air in the loft was cold. Autumn was settling in early in Arkham. It was only mid-September, but the morning chill penetrated his bones. He retreated to his small bathroom and stared at his reflection in the mirror. His bloodshot eyes, the chalk-white pallor to his face, they forced him to realize he should start calling his dreams by their real name, nightmarish visions of a world man was not meant to see.

Were the long hours he'd spent in the university library, absorbed in the old tomes of ancient legends, the cause? His advisor, Thaddeus Shrewsbury, had warned him to tread carefully in his research. But his specialty was ancient languages. How could he have pursued his dissertation without immersing himself in the beliefs of early cultures?

The dreams had started last May when he moved back to Arkham from England. His year at Oxford he'd been fine. Well, until January when he couldn't sleep at all, but that wasn't because of the dreams. When he returned to Arkham, he was determined to finish his doctoral dissertation. He longed to bury himself in his research and shut everything and everyone else out. Late at night when he was too weary to work, he caught up on reruns of TV programs he'd missed when he was abroad. Back then, an occasional dream was easy to blame on the pressure of defending his dissertation.

But he'd obtained that doctorate, and still the dreams continued. Now they'd grown more frequent and terrifyingly intense.

Wearily he splashed water on his face as he lectured himself, "Get a grip. You're Neal Carter. You just survived your first week as Assistant Professor of Linguistics at Miskatonic, one of the most prestigious universities in the country. You're young, of reasonable appearance. You have your whole life ahead of you. You're not going to let a few bad dreams get the better of you, are you?"

Ablution and stern lecture completed, he felt much more like himself. He moved into the kitchenette to make coffee and caught himself humming. What was that tune? Of course, the Bob Dylan classic—"The Times They Are a-Changin'." He shrugged. An improvement over last night.

For the past few days he suspected his subconscious was refusing to revisit the dreams and wouldn't let him sleep. Finally, with a desperation born out of bone-weary exhaustion, he'd put on a Simon and Garfunkel record. What a mistake that had been. Between "I am a Rock" and "Sounds of Silence," was it any wonder that he felt depressed? He was no rock and recently he'd come to the conclusion he'd had enough silence around him to last a lifetime.

Neal took out a bag of Italian roast coffee beans from the kitchen cabinet and ground enough for his coffee press. When the coffee was ready, he lifted up the steaming mug and breathed in the aroma. Walking over to the window, he gazed out at the clapboard houses across the street. The buildings might not have the history of Oxford, but there was something reassuring about the simple wood frame houses, each painted a different color. They were sturdy and unpretentious like the New England town they were set in. He needed their solidity now.

He'd been fortunate that June had held on to his apartment during his time in Oxford. The location, only a ten-minute walk from the university, made it prime property. She could have easily let it out while he was away, but she refused, insisting it wouldn't be right to have anyone else living upstairs. When her husband passed away, she claimed she would have been lost without Neal. He suspected she only said that to make him feel less alone, but he appreciated the sentiment. Now he was the one who would be lost without her.

By the time he left for his classes, Neal felt ready to face the challenges of the day. He entered the campus of Miskatonic University through the elaborate wrought iron gate and strolled through the quad. The maple trees were already beginning to turn with a few dappled rust and umber leaves scattered on the brick walk. The leaves were slippery with the heavy mist of the early morning. Although clouds hung low in the sky, it hadn't begun to rain. The brisk cool air would bring color to his cheeks. No need to worry the students that he'd come down with the plague.

As he headed for his office in the Wingate Hall of Humanities, he debated for what he hoped was the last time the wisdom of his plan. He would have asked Mozzie for advice, but he wasn't due back for another week. After a six-month sojourn in India, Mozzie shouldn't be welcomed home by having Neal's issues dumped on him.

Two nights ago when he was unable to fall asleep, he'd carefully crafted his strategy. Realizing that his insomnia was preventing him from thinking clearly, he'd gotten out the _Monopoly_ board Mozzie was so fond of using and even justified his moves aloud as if Mozzie were there listening. And when he imagined his friend nodding in approval, he knew he'd formulated his plan correctly. In preparation, Neal had already completed his notes for today's classes. He had no excuse not to sit in on Professor Gilman's lecture this morning.

He first stopped off at his tiny office on the fourth floor. As the newest faculty member of the Department of Linguistics he supposed he was lucky not to be relegated to the broom closet, although when he first saw it, he felt that was what it must have been in an earlier incarnation. He had barely enough space to cram his desk in among all the bookshelves. But at least he had a window. Granted, porthole might be a more accurate description, but the small leaded glass window provided a bird's eye view of the quad below.

Today's schedule was not heavy: a seminar on Anglo-Saxon language and literature at eleven and a lecture on the science of language in the afternoon. The lecture was the introductory course in the linguistics department. As the newest faculty member, he'd drawn the short straw. The seminar had been a surprise. It was all women. Neal found it hard to believe not a single male student had applied. The first day he'd been disconcerted by the intensity of all those female eyes staring at him.

Neal picked up the faculty directory from his desk and read Gilman's bio once more. Peter Gilman, full professor of archaeology. His field trips were legendary. Hell, the man was legendary. He came back with the most spectacular finds, many of which were currently displayed in the university museum. Jewelry from the Old Kingdom in ancient Egypt, Incan statues, gold figures from Mesopotamia, Shang Dynasty bronzes in China. His knowledge of ancient civilizations was without parallel.

Gilman had been away on a field trip when the introductory coffee for new faculty was held. Neal regretted the absence—he'd hoped to meet him. Today would have been so much easier if they were already acquainted, but the timing of Gilman's courses had never meshed with Neal's own demanding schedule. Gilman mainly taught small advanced seminars which were restricted to archaeology majors and grad students. Kate had often mentioned what a dynamic speaker he was. She'd been so excited to accompany him on an expedition … 

Neal opened a desk drawer and pulled out her photo. A friend had taken it on her last trip. He ran his finger over her image next to the Sanjaya temple ruins on Java. He lost himself in her face for a long moment and then slipped it back in the drawer.

So what was he going to say to Gilman? That he was counting on him being able to identify the mysterious object in his dreams? Neal winced. Not the sort of subject to bother a stranger with. Most likely Gilman would laugh in his face or think he was high on LSD. Perhaps he'd report him to the provost as someone who was too unstable to teach.

His resolve crumpling like the ruin in Kate's photo, for the umpteen-thousandth time he debated approaching Gilman. Neal stood up and went over to the window. Raindrops were now trickling down the glass in tiny rivulets, obscuring his view, but the ivy-covered brick walls of the buildings around the quad were a reassuring solid presence. No more procrastinating. He'd promised himself the evening before if he had one more recurrence of his dream, he'd discuss it with Gilman. The decision had already been made for him last night as he slept.

Gilman was scheduled to give a lecture this morning on the results of his recent field work in Egypt. Neal had decided to attend to gain a better sense of the man. The lecture hall was the largest one in Wingate Hall and it was almost filled to capacity by the time Neal arrived. He finally found a seat about two-thirds of the way up the steep gallery and waited impatiently for the lecture to start.

Gilman arrived promptly at nine. The man had a commanding presence on the stage. He wasn't that old—early to mid-thirties—but he had a natural assurance in front of a large audience that Neal envied. His most recent field work had been at the Umm el-Qa'ab necropolis at Abydos, a location of predynastic tombs and one of the oldest sites ever explored in Egypt. Gilman had been in charge of an excavation of the tomb of Iry-Hor, a pharaoh from the thirty-second century BC. As Gilman flashed slides of his discoveries—potsherds, ivory artifacts—Neal scanned them all with fascination.

Toward the end of his lecture, Gilman stopped on a slide of a small green soapstone. "I found this artifact behind a loose mudbrick in the tomb. Its location indicates it may have been an object of veneration. Note the unusual incisions . . ."

"Hey, man, you okay?'' Neal felt his shoulder being shaken. He'd slumped forward in his seat. His head swimming, for a moment he couldn't remember where he was. He nodded shakily to the student next to him, not trusting his voice. He must have blacked out. The students were standing to leave. Neal sank back into his seat while they exited and tried to regain his equilibrium. A few of the students were going down to talk with Gilman. He closed his eyes till the hall stopped spinning.

When he opened them again, the hall was nearly empty. If he didn't go now, he'd miss his chance. Gilman was packing up his notes and would soon leave.

Neal descended the steps, relieved to find the dizziness had left him. His speed increased as he began to panic Gilman would leave before he arrived and he'd miss his chance. But what nonsense that was. Neal slowed down, appalled at the irrationality of his thought processes. If this didn't work, forget the cost of an international call—he was calling Mozzie.

Despite his fears, Gilman hadn't left by the time Neal approached the lectern. At the last minute, he hesitated once more. Running a hand through his hair, he took a deep breath. "Professor Gilman, would you have the time to speak with me today?"

Gilman looked up from his notes, his eyes sweeping over him. "I've set aside an hour for meeting with students at two on Thursdays. You're welcome to come then and stand in line." He paused, studying him, and added, "Don't be so stressed. The first week of classes can seem overwhelming. Apply yourself to your studies and you'll catch on."

Neal felt his face redden. "I'm not a student," and proceeded to introduce himself.

"My apologies. You look so young." Gilman shook his hand and smiled. "I'd heard you joined the faculty. Please, call me Peter." He looked at his watch. "I have an appointment shortly and then a seminar to teach, but are you free at four o'clock?"

Neal agreed eagerly. He was due to leave for his own seminar in any case. He left the lecture hall in markedly higher spirits. Finally, he might get some answers.

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Peter glanced at his watch. He still had a few minutes before Carter would show up. He rocked slowly in his leather chair as he thought about their brief encounter. No wonder he'd mistaken Carter for a student. He looked about twenty, far too young to be a member of the faculty. Just how old was he?

Peter pulled out a desk drawer and rummaged through his papers. There it was. The bulletin they'd sent around on Carter's appointment. The kid was only twenty-two. No wonder Peter had been confused. How had he managed to obtain a doctorate so quickly? Peter read through the profile. Full scholarship. Skipped two years of grade school, sailed through his courses at Miskatonic, completing them in record time. Carter must be genius-level. His grasp of languages, both ancient and modern, was remarkable.

Rather surprising their paths hadn't crossed earlier, but it was understandable. Carter had spent the past year at Oxford on the Miskatonic Oxford exchange program researching his dissertation on a comparison of Vedic Sanskrit to Archaic Chinese. His master's thesis had been on early Germanic languages. Peter had spent much of the past two years away on expeditions, and as a result his teaching load had been light.

Carter's profile was intriguing. Peter had often wished for a linguistics expert to call on. This was exactly the sort of person he'd welcome as a colleague, if only Carter weren't too unstable. What had gotten him so upset? When he'd approached the lectern, he was as white as the chalk Peter had been writing with. He looked like he wasn't sleeping well, and that slight tremor in his hands was troubling.

If the stress of the first week of classes was getting to him, it would be folly to subject him to the rigors of Peter's own research. Too bad. Peter had seen that happen before. Young faculty members not knowing how to pace themselves, becoming overwhelmed by the work load, and burning out. Maybe Carter just needed a good dose of advice to get himself back on track. If so, he'd come to the right person.

Fortunately when Carter showed up at his door, he looked fine. Perhaps that had simply been an aberration. Peter welcomed him in and offered him a chair, but he was too fascinated by the objects displayed in his bookcases to sit down.

"Did you collect all these?" he asked.

Peter nodded. "That statue you're looking at is from an Incan tomb I excavated near Machu Picchu. The Peruvian authorities allowed me to keep it because of my continuing work there." As he showed Carter artifacts from Mongolia, Egypt and the Himalayas, Carter wasn't satisfied with a superficial discussion but asked detailed questions, revealing a keen knowledge of ancient peoples. Peter warmed up to the topic and soon the two of them were calling each other by their first names, talking like colleagues who'd known each other for years.

But it was disconcerting that Neal showed no inclination to bring up why he requested the appointment. Finally Peter said, "I've enjoyed this but don't want to keep you." A subtle reminder he had work to do. "You mentioned you had something you wanted to talk to me about."

Neal nodded. An awkward hesitancy replaced his former articulateness. Peter motioned him to take a seat and prodded him to continue. "About my work?"

"Yes, that's one of the reasons I attended your lecture." He paused as if conducting an internal debate before proceeding, which only served to heighten Peter's curiosity. "It was my intention to ask you about an artifact—a green soapstone in the shape of a starfish, inscribed with a distinctive pattern of marks. You can imagine my surprise when you talked about a similar object in your lecture."

Peter grew excited. The object he'd found at Abydos was unique to his knowledge. "But mine wasn't starfish shaped."

Neal opened his briefcase and pulled out a drawing. It had been made with colored pencils and was meticulous in its detail. "What do you think of this? Although not identical, the marks are of similar appearance and the groupings bear a striking resemblance."

"Did you draw this?" Peter asked as he studied the drawing. It showed him that his artifact might have been the central part to what had been a starfish. The object he'd found possessed only one arm. Clearly other parts had been broken off, but it was impossible to know what shapes they might have been. Could this be the same object?

Neal nodded confirmation.

"Where did you see it?" Peter asked eagerly

He hesitated for a moment before responding. "I've been having dreams about this object for the past four months."

Peter's look of disbelief must have been evident from the way Neal's face reddened. "How is that possible? Did you read about the discovery?"

Neal shook his head with frustration. "No. I had no idea you had something similar. In my dream I see a land that has the same cliff escarpments as Abydos. The wadi slices through it at precisely the same position as at Abydos. I'd intended to ask you if you'd seen anything resembling the object, then when I saw your slide at the lecture . . ." His voice trailed off as he spread his hands in an embarrassed gesture.

Peter went over to the safe where he kept his most valuable artifacts and unlocked it. He reached inside for the specimen tray containing the soapstone he'd discussed in the lecture and pulled it out. When he turned to face Neal, he discovered him in considerable distress. His face had been bleached of color and sweat had broken out on his face despite the chill of his office. He was gasping for breath, his eyes glazing over.

Peter quickly set the artifact down and strode over to assist. He shook him by the shoulder. "Are you all right? What is it?"

Neal appeared incapable of answering and was breathing in short, painful gasps. Peter loosened his tie and unbuttoned his collar but his condition was growing worse.

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

The wind howled. The onslaught of sand scorched his face till it was raw. He clung to the altar but the wind laughed at him, ripped his hands away, and tossed him as if he'd been a blade of grass. Buffeted by a gale against which there was no resistance, he was hurled down the staircase. He was falling, falling down the malodorous granite steps . . . down into the abyss. The loathsome gibbers grew louder, gnawing his brain as they drew ever closer. . . .

"Neal? You with me?"

The stairs vanished. Neal pried his eyes open, gasping for breath. When he opened his eyes, he wished he hadn't. Swirling iridescent colors spun dizzily in front of him. His ears were still ringing from the wind. It was almost impossible to make out any words. The voice was faint as if coming from a great distance. He struggled to focus, but everything was blurred—a chaotic sea of colors too vivid to be real. Frantic, he turned his head to find something solid to hold onto. There. In the midst of chaos, the soapstone. It glowed from within with an intensity of a blazing star.

Neal tried to speak, but no words came out. His throat ached from the effort. "Soapstone," he gasped then dropped back into blackness.

Cool and wet. Someone was wiping his forehead. The wind had ceased. No more sand in his face. He sat for a moment, his eyes closed, trying to calm his breathing. "Neal?" That voice again. Only this time he recognized it. It was Peter's voice.

Neal opened his eyes warily. The maelstrom of disorienting colors had vanished and was replaced by the warm earthiness of Peter's office. He'd pulled over a chair and was sitting in front of him, eyeing him with concern. "Feeling a little better?"

Neal nodded, not trusting his voice. His mind was still processing the turbulent sensations he'd experienced. Overriding all other impressions was his mortification at Peter having witnessed it. Neal longed to sneak away and pretend it had never happened.

Peter gave him a few moments to recover before attempting to get him to speak. "Care to explain what just happened?" he asked mildly, as if witnessing someone being assaulted by a psychedelic vision was a routine occurrence.

Neal had a sudden urge to respond with a hysterical burst of laughter, but clamped down on it. "The soapstone … you took it out of your safe?"

Peter nodded. "I turned around to find you'd passed out." He was speaking slowly, in measured tones, as if to give Neal time to process the meaning. "You were out for only a minute or two. You muttered something about the soapstone, so I put it back in the safe."

That didn't sound right. He could have sworn he'd been out for at least a half-hour.

"You aren't an epileptic, are you?"

Neal shook his head.

"Then what was it?"

Neal considered for a moment before answering that loaded question. "I wish I had an answer. When you took the soapstone out of the safe, it threw me back into the dream I was telling you about."

Peter stood up and walked over to a side cabinet where he kept a carafe of water. "Think you can manage a glass of water?" Embarrassed, Neal nodded and held with both hands the glass Peter extended to him. He was relieved to see the tremors in his hands were quickly subsiding.

Peter went over to the phone on his desk. He slanted Neal a quick glance, probably to see if he'd passed out again. "I'm just calling the medical department to send someone over."

"No," Neal said, more forcefully than he'd intended. While Peter hesitated, his hand still on the phone receiver, Neal added in a tone meant to convey confidence and robust health, "I'm feeling fine now. There's no need." He sat up straighter in his chair and tried to look relaxed and at ease.

Peter studied him dubiously and then appeared to acquiesce, at least for the moment. He returned to his chair and sat opposite him. "Then tell me what you saw," with a calmness that Neal found oddly reassuring.

"I'm at the necropolis at Abydos. It's late at night." Neal's voice was husky as he began. He took another sip of water and, clearing his throat, continued, relieved that his voice grew stronger as he spoke. "I can see the stars high overhead. A howling wind whips sand on my face. Before me there's a group of columns. I walk toward them. In the center on a massive altar of granite lies the soapstone." He paused to give Peter a chance to laugh in his face.

But Peter didn't laugh. "Is the dream always the same?"

"I believe so. When I first started getting them, all I remembered was a swirling void with the vague outline of the soapstone. Now with every dream, the details come more into focus." Neal hesitated. Should he go into every detail? The staircase beyond? No, that was too incredible and Peter would write him off as another crazed eccentric scholar. He'd explained enough. "They've become more frequent. The past couple of weeks they've been nightly occurrences." Neal set the glass down and assessed Peter's reaction to what he'd heard so far. When he looked into Peter's eyes, he didn't read ridicule or contempt or even simply disbelief but rather the curiosity of a scientist.

"When did you first start experiencing the dreams?"

"About four months ago, in May. I'd arrived back from Oxford and was preparing to defend my dissertation. The first couple of times I thought the dream was simply caused by stress."

Peter nodded. "A reasonable assumption. It may also be a coincidence that I returned from Egypt with the soapstone in April."

Was it? Or was Peter sending him a signal his mind was open to other possibilities? Emboldened, Neal asked "Would you mind if I tried it again?"

"You feel strong enough?"

"I need to know."

Peter studied him for a moment then nodded and went back to the safe. As soon as he opened the door, Neal could feel the disorientation happen again, but he forced himself to relax and try to ride it out. He pictured himself a surfer, riding an ocean wave. He kept his eyes fixed on the object as Peter slowly walked toward him. When he was about six feet away, the dizziness couldn't be denied any longer. He felt his heart pounding out of his chest as he gasped for air. His vision blurring, he flailed out with a hand.

"Hold on." Peter spun around and quickly returned the object in the safe.

Once more the effect slowly dissipated, leaving Neal as exhausted as if he'd climbed Mount Everest. This was ridiculous. He swam. He ran. Neal was no hundred-pound weakling. This shouldn't be happening to him. He wiped the sweat off his brow with a shaky hand. "What is that? Kryptonite?"

Peter chuckled and shook his head. "I gotta tell you. You're not exactly my image of Superman." He glanced at his watch and considered for a moment. Neal took a sip of water. Could he simply slip out of the office? It would be the best solution. This had been an unmitigated disaster. Peter was probably regretting he hadn't called the medics and was trying to figure out how to get rid of him. Peter broke into his musings when he asked, "Have you eaten anything today?"

Neal looked at him in surprise. "Breakfast." With everything else going on, food had been the last thing on Neal's mind. He'd been surviving on coffee for the past several hours.

"Well it's way past lunch, but not too early to grab a quick supper. My wife's working this evening and I don't like eating alone. Besides, I'd like to hear more about that soapstone you drew and it's time for you to get out of this office."

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

On their way out they stopped off at Neal's office for his raincoat. Peter assessed Neal's gait as they walked up the broad staircase. Apparently he hadn't suffered any lingering dizziness from the episode. His wife Elizabeth would have insisted Neal see a doctor, but it was clear Neal would have fought the idea. Peter decided to postpone any further attempts for later.

 Peter was amused to see the size of the cubbyhole Neal had been assigned. It reminded him of his own first year. At least Neal had a window. Peter hadn't been as lucky.

Their destination was the Sentinel Alehouse, a short walk away through the quad and down Trinity Avenue. The showers of the morning had stopped and blue sky was beginning to peek through the clouds. Neal walked confidently beside him. It was hard to believe he'd been in such distress a few minutes earlier.

Peter steered the conversation away from any discussion of Abydos until Neal had eaten something. Instead they discussed their respective courses. The hesitancy in Neal's voice was gone when he talked about his course subjects. Peter suspected he was an engaging speaker.

The Sentinel Alehouse was an institution in Arkham, going back over a hundred years with framed newspapers from colonial days on the old brick walls. The booths were upholstered in dark red leather. The simple fare was to Peter's taste, and it had the best selection of lagers and ales in town. Peter had been coming here a long time and all the servers knew him.

Joanie seated them at his favorite booth and took their drink orders. Neal requested a glass of wine. A clear indication the kid needed help. Who comes to an alehouse and drinks wine? Peter also ordered pretzel bites with cheese sauce as a starter.

Neal was a good listener and conversationalist, drawing Peter out on tales of his expeditions more than he'd expected. But Peter also acquired details about Neal's studies. Apparently he was also a decent artist, if that sketch were representative of his work.

"When you were at Oxford did you see anything resembling the soapstone?" Peter asked.

"No, and I scoured all the museums containing artifacts from ancient times. I would have remembered something so distinctive."

When Joanie returned to take their orders, Peter recommended the meatloaf.

"Meatloaf? Really?" Neal looked amused and more lighthearted than he'd ever seen him. His reaction reminded him of what Elizabeth's had been the first time they'd come to the alehouse. What would El's reaction be to Neal? Peter suspected he'd be calling on her expertise shortly.

"One of life's great foods. Didn't your mom make you meatloaf?"

He shook his head, giving him an odd look. "It's high time I experience the thrill."

Once their entrées had arrived, Peter returned to the subject uppermost in his mind. "So in your travels, you didn't go to Abydos?"

"Like in my dream? No. Oxford was the first time I'd been overseas, and I was on a tight budget. My travels were restricted to train trips close to Oxford."

"You said when you first experienced the dream, you thought it was stress related. Speaking for myself, I know how easy it is to overdo it when you're preparing for your dissertation—studying too late at night, not getting enough sleep …"

"And I freely admit I was guilty as charged on all counts. If I'd only had the dream a couple of times, I would have thought no more about it, but instead it continued and increased in frequency. Why is it always the same dream and the same soapstone? That doesn't make any sense. And why does simply being in the presence of your artifact have such an effect on me?"

"I don't know. I may have to revise my initial assessment. You're sure you don't have a superhero costume on under your suit?"

His plan to make Neal lighten up appeared to work as he broke into a grin. "If I were born on Krypton, I got short-changed. Why do I only suffer the bad effects and none of the good? I wouldn't mind being able to fly through the air and have x-ray vision, but alas, so far I'm not feeling it."

"Tomorrow I'll take the soapstone over to Professor Dexter in the chemistry department. Cyrus is a friend. I'm sure I can convince him to run some tests . . . Neal? You okay?" He'd dropped his fork in mid-bite and was staring with horror down at his plate. "Did you find something in your meatloaf?" When he didn't respond, Peter reached over to shake his shoulder. "Snap out of it!"

Either his voice or the shaking did the trick and Neal looked up at him, wild-eyed. "They're going to kill Seth if I don't stop them!" He rose precipitously to leave.

"Wait! Who's going to kill him? And who's Seth?" But Neal was already halfway to the door. Peter grabbed his coat to follow him, calling out to Joanie to put the bill on his tab. He ran up to Neal on the street and seized him by the arm. "Where do you think you're going?"

Neal pulled away frantically. "Whateley Rare Books. Peter, he's dying. I have to help him!"

The bookshop was only three blocks away and there was no way Peter was going to let Neal go by himself. Neal darted off down the street and Peter sprinted after him. Damn, Neal was fast. He must be a runner, but so was Peter. He'd match his strides. He knew Seth. Hiram Whateley's younger son. Seth had attended Miskatonic, probably a couple of years ahead of Neal. He'd been in one of Peter's classes, a seminar on India. Bright kid.

Whateley Rare Books was midway down the block off a side street. Dusk had already fallen and the stores were closed. When they arrived at the bookstore, Peter restrained Neal from rushing the door. "Hold on. If what you saw was real, the assailants may still be inside. We have to check it out first."

Neal paused and nodded agreement. They peered through the windows. According to the sign, the store had been closed for an hour. The interior was dark with the only light provided by frosted glass wall sconces. They cast ominous shadows on the leather bindings of the rare books that Whateley's was renowned for. No sign of activity. Neal darted to the door and tried the handle. The door was unlocked and opened with a sharp creak. When Neal moved to enter the shop, Peter held out an arm to block him and forced his way in first. If there were a killer or burglar inside, Peter was a more formidable opponent than a skinny runner who hadn't been eating enough meatloaf.

Peter was a frequent visitor to the shop, having spent long hours browsing through the old volumes filling the bookshelves and piled high on tables, chairs, and every other available surface. Neal flicked on a light switch by the door which turned on the overhead light. Peter listened for any sound, but the shop was quiet as a tomb. No, not a tomb. . . .

Neal strode over to the counter and let out a sharp cry.

With a sinking feeling that went down to his stomach, Peter joined Neal behind the counter. Seth was lying on the wood plank floor, a massive wound to the back of his neck. Neal knelt beside him. He felt for a pulse then looked up at Peter with a stricken face and shook his head.

"The killer may still be on the premises," Peter warned. He scanned the back of the counter and spotted what he was looking for—a burglar alarm button. Had Seth managed to push it when he was assaulted? Peter pushed it several times, hoping the wire hadn't been cut and the signal would go through. Neal was still kneeling, his gaze fixed on Seth. Peter put a hand on his shoulder. "Now. We have to go. It's not safe."

Neal nodded absently and started to get up when he froze. "Look!" He pointed to an object partially obscured by the counter overhang. A green soapstone, in the shape of a starfish, with a pattern of marks on the surface. Apparently it had been dropped and gotten wedged next to the cabinet. Two of the arms had been broken off and two of the remaining ones were coated with blood. Peter crouched down low to examine it, the need to leave momentarily forgotten as the archaeologist in him took over.

Neal took out a pad of paper from his pocket and started sketching the marks. "Be sure not to touch anything," Peter warned.

Neal nodded and continued sketching. Although he was only a couple of feet away he seemed to be able to control any disorientation the soapstone might be causing him.

Suddenly Peter heard noises coming from the floor above them—pounding thuds on floorboards. Peter grabbed Neal by the collar and forced him up, giving him a shove. "Run!"

Neal had heard the sounds too and needed no encouragement, but the stairs were between them and the front door. Two figures clothed in black with hoods covering their faces ran down the stairs and blocked their exit.

Peter and Neal exchanged quick nods and charged their attackers. As they wrestled with them, one of them pinned Neal down. Peter kicked the other, making him sprawl, but he snarled, leaped up, and pulled out a gun.

"Police! Freeze! Hands up!" A man and woman were standing at the door with their guns trained on them. The assailant Peter had kicked grabbed a heavy display unit and hurled it toward the police.

Books and glass flew everywhere. He took advantage of the commotion to race for the door and exit the shop. The male cop ran after him. The woman trained her gun on the other assailant who had stood up and was gripping Neal as a shield in front of him. He had a gun pressed to Neal's neck.

Ignoring her commands, the gunman made his way to the door, keeping Neal between him and the detective. Neal turned his head to look at his captor. When he saw the gunman's hood, his face became transfixed with a look of sheer terror. What had frightened him so much? He wasn't that way earlier.

Neal lashed out with his leg, striking the attacker's kneecap and making him lose his grip. As Neal dove for cover, the woman immediately shot the gunman in the leg.

Peter ran over to Neal. "Are you all right?"                                                                                         

Neal nodded, breathless. "You?"

"I wasn't hurt." Peter helped him to his feet.

By now more police had arrived on the scene. A couple of them took charge of the gunman. They pulled off his hood. The guy was middle-aged and heavyset, his face disfigured with old scars. He was collapsed on the floor, holding his knee in agony. Peter felt no sympathy for him. After what he did to Seth, he deserved worse.

Neal was still breathing heavily, his eyes riveted on his assailant.

"We should leave," Peter said. "Let the police do their job."

Neal looked over at him, his blue eyes grown wide. "That wasn't the man who attacked me."

"What do you mean?" Peter demanded, dumbfounded, but before Neal could reply, the policewoman walked over. Introducing herself as Detective Diana Briscoe, she led them outside and ordered them to sit down on the bench outside the bookstore to wait for medics to check them out.

Peter wasn't about to argue with her. Besides, Neal was clearly shaken from his ordeal and needed to sit down. Had he become delusional? Peter passed a weary hand over his face. What was going on with these visions of his? They were obviously freaking Neal out and they were starting to do the same to him.

Briscoe asked for their IDs, scrutinizing them under her flashlight as if she expected them to be forgeries. She held onto them, saying she'd return them later.

As she started to return to the bookstore, the cop who'd run after the other gunman returned. She looked at him with dismay. "Don't tell me, Jones—he escaped."

"Sorry, Diana. We lost him in the back alleys."

"Damn. Well, at least we have the one. I shot him in the leg so there shouldn't be anything wrong with his vocal chords."

Just then the EMT vehicle rolled up. Detective Briscoe led the medics inside the store. The cop she called Jones went over to one of the patrol cars and appeared to be calling in a report.

"No more visions?" Peter asked.

Neal flushed. "I'm all right. Forget what I said. Must have just been the strain."

"I never got the chance to ask—what was it you saw in the alehouse that alerted you to come here?"

"I saw Seth behind the counter as if I were standing in the front of the store. He had his back to me and the two men were creeping toward him. They were dressed all in black like we saw them. I never saw their faces. Seth turned around and screamed when he saw them. The next instant I had this vivid impression of standing at the counter, watching while they attacked him." He stopped, swallowing convulsively, his face turning even paler under the light of the street lamp.

Peter didn't say anything till he'd regained his composure. "Seth was a good friend of yours?"

"Yeah," he admitted in a low voice.

"Hell, I'm sorry."

"What should I do? What if the police ask why we were there?"

"You have to tell them the truth."

Neal shook his head worriedly. "But they'll think I'm crazy. I worry about that myself. Before tonight I've never had visions like this. I thought I was simply having weird dreams and now I'm seeing crimes in my head?"

Neal was right. If Peter hadn't seen the effect the soapstone had on him, he wouldn't have believed it, and he didn't know what to make of his vision. "You can be vague. Just call it a foreboding. A feeling that Seth was being menaced. That's not a lie. You don't have to explain unless you're asked a direct question. I doubt the Arkham police are going to ask if you had a vision."

Neal started to speak when Jones walked over. "You two holding up okay? The medics should be out shortly." He shook hands with them, introducing himself as Detective Briscoe's partner, Reginald Jones.

Peter heard the door to the bookstore open and turned around, expecting to see a medic, but instead it was Briscoe. She looked shaken as she walked over to their group. "The suspect just died. His wound wasn't that severe. There's no way it could have killed him." She paused, worrying her lower lip. "I don't like it. Something else is at play here."

"Did you find a . . . ?" Jones glanced over at Neal and Peter and didn't finish his sentence.

She nodded. "Just like the others. Damn. We were so close this time. But now, with this death . . .  What's going on, Jones?"

She looked baffled, and Peter felt the same. He'd thought his artifact was unique. Now one remarkably similar was a likely murder weapon. Was it also from ancient Egypt? How had it gotten here? And the greatest mystery of all—this young linguistics scholar who approached Peter with a question about a dream he'd had. How were Neal's visions connected to the artifacts and why was he having them?

 

* * *

_Notes: Thanks for reading! The mystery deepens in Chapter 2: The Menace Within which I'll post next Wednesday. This is the first story in a new series and I'd love to hear what you think about it._

_Many thanks to Penna Nomen for providing outstanding beta reader, cheerleader, and sanity-checking services for Visions from Beyond._

_The Arkham Files series originates from the Caffrey Conversation AU, created by Penna Nomen. FBI Agent Diana Berrigan began writing Arkham Files fics as part of a strategy to capture a cybercriminal nicknamed Azathoth. Most of her characters are drawn from the world of White Collar and retain their same given names. No knowledge of either White Collar or Lovecraft is required to read the stories. Events and characters in Arkham Files are sometimes referenced in the Caffrey Conversation stories and have an impact on plot development. The cybercriminal Azathoth made his first appearance in the story The Woman in Blue. Diana's stories are mentioned for the first time in The Dreamer. In Visions from Beyond, Diana draws inspiration from some of the scenes in The Dreamer and The Mirror, but it's not necessary to have read those stories._

_You can read more about Caffrey Conversation and the Arkham Files on our blog,_ _called Penna Nomen & Silbrith Conversation (_[ _www.pennasilbrithconversation.blogspot.com_](http://www.pennasilbrithconversation.blogspot.com/) _)_ _. We also have summaries for all the Caffrey Conversation stories on the blog. My post this week was about Arkham Files. Penna wrote about Neal's mother in a post called "Meredith Caffrey: Villain or Victim?"_

_The Arkham Files board at our Caffrey Conversation Pinterest site at_ [ _www.pinterest.com/caffreycon_ ](http://www.pinterest.com/caffreycon) _has visuals, music, and cast photos._

_If you'd like to catch up with the AU, the series begins with Caffrey Conversation by Penna Nomen where Peter recruited Neal in 2003. _In exchange for a confession and help in recovering stolen items, he was given immunity for past crimes and started working for the FBI as a consultant.__ _My first story, Complications, describes how Neal was admitted to Columbia University. We date all our stories so you can keep track of the order in which events occur._

_Disclaimers: The worlds of_ _White Collar and the Cthulhu Mythos as envisaged by H.P. Lovecraft, August Derleth and others are not mine, alas._

 


	2. The Menace Within

**Arkham Police Station. September 12, 1975. Friday evening**

_Is this what shock feels like?_

Neal took a sip of water from the glass Detective Jones had provided him. He and Peter were sitting in the Arkham police station where they'd been brought after the medics had given them a quick checkup.

The image of Seth's body on the bookstore floor hovered in front of his eyes. It was the first time Neal had ever seen a murder victim, and he hoped to God he'd never have to again. Seth had been there for him when he returned from Oxford. No matter how down Neal felt, Seth could make him laugh. He ribbed Neal for being too serious. For someone so carefree to die that way . . . Neal swiped a hand over his mouth as his nausea increased. He forced himself to think about something else.

That something else was Detective Diana Briscoe, currently sitting across the desk and glaring at him. Had she been questioning him? He glanced over at Peter sitting beside him. Peter gave him a quick nod and Neal breathed easier. He must not have zoned out for too long.

Briscoe had been furious at not being able to catch the other assailant, unbelieving that the man she shot had died, and apparently ready to vent her frustrations at the two of them. She was about thirty—attractive, with her long dark hair pulled back into a ponytail—but she acted like Dirty Harry. She probably called criminals _punks_. Detective Jones had been much more sympathetic. Neal wished he were the one doing the questioning. Could he ask for a new interrogator?

Briscoe placed her elbows on the table and leaned forward to glower even closer at them. "Can you explain what you were doing inside the bookshop at that hour? According to the sign, it had closed two hours earlier."

"We were walking by," Peter said, taking the lead. "We checked to see if the door was locked and—"

She interrupted him impatiently. "Professor Gilman, are you in the habit of testing shop doors when you take a stroll?"

Neal jumped in, dismayed at her words. Peter shouldn't have to get in trouble over this. It was Neal's fault. "We'd been having dinner. I had a feeling Seth might be in trouble and Professor Gilman went with me to assist."

"You had a feeling," Briscoe repeated, rolling her eyes. "What are you, psychic? I thought you were a professor of linguistics, not a palm-reader." She sat back in her chair and studied them as if they were two teenagers caught in a prank. "Just two college professors out for a stroll? Do you find violent crimes are attracted to you?"

"No, at least . . . no." Neal groaned inwardly at his clumsiness. Could this go any worse?

"Well you're lucky the two perps were still on the scene when I arrived, or I would have placed you under arrest."

As she readied her next salvo, Detective Jones approached her, saying in a low voice, "You need to see this, Diana."

When she stood up, she jabbed her finger at both of them. "You two, stay put. I'm not done with you yet."

Neal turned his head to watch. The detective pointed to several photos on his desk. Their voices were too low for Neal to catch what they were saying. Had they taken instant photos at the bookstore? Were they looking at Seth?

"You holding up?" Peter asked, diverting his attention.

He hadn't had any visions in an hour. He'd count that as a positive. "I'm sorry I dragged you into this."

"Don't worry about it. I've faced much worse. The soapstone didn't seem to bother you this time."

"About that . . . Do you think she'll allow us to—"

"Allow you to do what?" Briscoe interrupted sharply, approaching from behind. She took her place in front of them.

"There was a carved green stone on the floor next to the counter," Peter said, fielding the question smoothly. "Do you know if it was collected into evidence?"

She nodded. "It may have been the murder weapon. Does it mean anything to you?" She studied him suspiciously as if reevaluating whether he possibly could have done it.

"It resembles an artifact I found in a tomb in ancient Egypt. I'd hoped I could study it."

"How similar are the two objects?"

"They appear to be the same composition and roughly equivalent in size. Both display similar incised marks." Peter started to explain the circumstances of his discovery, but she cut him off as soon as she heard the artifact was in his possession.

"I'd like to see that stone. Can you bring it to me tomorrow morning? I want both of you present. I'll finish questioning you then."

Neal was relieved to postpone further interrogation. His bruises had been lodging a protest against the hard police station chairs for the past several minutes. The next day was a Saturday and neither one of them had classes. They agreed to meet at ten o'clock. Briscoe offered to have a police car drop them off, but the police station wasn't far from campus. Neal preferred to walk. He needed time to process the events of the day. The soapstone, Seth, his attacker, his visions—his brain kept cycling through the events and trying to make sense of them. He hoped the night air would bring clarity.

Peter also declined a ride, saying he lived nearby. They exited the police station together.

Once they were on the street, Peter interrupted Neal's goodbye. "You and I need to talk. There's a coffeehouse just down the road. It's called Dorian's. I haven't been here since I returned from Egypt, but it used to have the best Italian roast in town."

Neal hesitated. After everything that had gone on, he couldn't imagine Peter wanting to spend more time with him, but walking off by himself into the night didn't have much appeal either. "It still does. The son, Jack Dorian, is running the place now and you'll notice a few changes."

"Do they still have live music?"

Neal nodded. "Mainly amateurs from the university—an occasional pro or semi-pro stops in."

A few minutes later they were sitting in Dorian's, steaming mugs of Italian roast in front of them. Neal didn't see Jack around. Just as well. How could he explain what had happened tonight? On a Friday night most of the tables were already spoken for. A folk singer was singing "Blowin' in the Wind" as he accompanied himself on the guitar. The music seemed appropriate. For a day that Neal wanted to find answers, he found himself facing even more questions than before.

Neal grasped the mug with both hands, hoping the warmth would penetrate the chill that had set in ever since discovering Seth. The nausea he'd experienced in the police station had dissipated leaving grief in its place. If he'd only been quicker in responding, could he have prevented the tragedy?

Peter broke into his thoughts. "I like the paintings on the walls. They weren't here before."

Neal cast a quick glance around. "Jack's an artist. Most of the paintings are his. He also invites friends to display their paintings."

"Eclectic collection," he commented. "Landscapes, still lifes, portraits." He nodded toward one of them. "That beachscape with the night sky overhead. It looks otherworldly. The artist must be into science fiction."

Embarrassed, Neal scratched the back of his neck, not knowing what to say.

Peter eyed him questioningly. "Did you paint that?"

"That one and the woodland scene are mine." He was glad the woods didn't look as alien as the beachscape.

Peter studied them. "So, you're a linguist, an artist . . . do you sing too?"

"Only after too much wine," he admitted sheepishly. "How about you?"

"I've been known to sing in the shower . . . when my wife's not around to complain."

"So what do you sing? Stones music? The Who?"

"All of the above and all extremely badly. After you've had a couple of glasses of wine what would I hear you sing?"

"Ballads mainly—Paul McCartney, James Taylor."

"I saw Joe Cocker at Woodstock. Blew me away. He was acting like he was playing an imaginary guitar. I thought I could do that. You know the song 'A Little Help from My Friends'?"

"Of course, it's famous. I can see you as Cocker with long hair, sideburns." Neal stopped short. Teasing a senior faculty member he'd just met? Not smart.

But Peter didn't seem to mind. He was chuckling. "C'mon, confess. You probably had your long hair phase, too, didn't you? Wasn't 'Hair' your national anthem?"

"Didn't see a barber much in college, I'll admit. Some probably think my hair's still too long. Seth used to tease me about it." The words died in Neal's throat.

Peter also grew serious. "You told me outside the bookstore that the man who died wasn't the person who attacked you. What did you mean? And don't try to say it was nothing. I saw the way you looked at him. You were terrified, but when you first tackled him, you weren't scared at all. Something happened and you have to tell me what it was."

Did he really want to test Peter? What he saw was so incredible Neal didn't believe it himself. The guy had locked his arm around Neal's chest, squeezing the air out of him. Perhaps oxygen had been cut off to his brain and it was a simple hallucination. That was much more likely and certainly more reasonable. Or he was going mad. That's what Detective Briscoe would have said.

"Was it from the soapstone? Did you have a vision?" Peter could be as persistent as that detective, but Neal couldn't help feeling some things are best to never be brought to light.

"No, nothing from the soapstone, at least not anything that made sense. I only got a brief glimpse of phosphorescent colors in a mist. It was nothing as violent or overpowering as what I experienced in your office." Neal hoped that would suffice and Peter would move on to another topic, but after a few minutes he was forced to conclude that wasn't going to be the case. Peter sat back sipping his coffee and listened to the music.

What should he say? The vision was so repulsive—so abhorrent—that he shuddered to describe it. Peter didn't need to have his dreams haunted as Neal's would be that night.

"Neal, what did you see?"

"Trust me, you don't want to know." He uttered the words so softly, Peter had to visibly strain to hear them but apparently that didn't lessen his determination.

"Tell me," he commanded. There was a note of authority in his voice that Neal knew he couldn't fight.

"It was when the attacker had me in his grasp. Perhaps the physical contact triggered it." Neal stopped to take a deep breath. "You're not going to believe me, but when I turned to look at him, I didn't see a figure clothed in black with a hood, but a monster." He could hear his voice grow stronger as he continued. He'd reached the point of no return. There could be no more holding back. "His skin was rough and knotty like a tree. His eyes were fiery red orbs that blazed with hatred. The man who I tackled was about my height, six feet. But this… the creature in front of me was at least three feet taller with hooved, powerful legs. His arms were as long as his legs, and his hands, if hands they were, twice the length of mine and ending in powerful claws." Neal paused to focus on the image that was still etched so vividly in his mind. "The legs reminded me of a kangaroo but its head was more like a jackal. Its mouth had large fangs, dripping with saliva which felt like acid on my face." He looked up to scan Peter's face. "I must have been hallucinating. Could such things possibly exist?"

Peter was staring at him in bewilderment and didn't answer directly. "Can you draw what you saw?"

Taking out his notebook and a pencil, Neal rapidly sketched the creature. As he drew, more details emerged. And the stench. No way to sketch the smell of rotting flesh and death. Neal forced down the returning nausea as he focused on capturing each feature. When he was done, he passed it to Peter, and sat back, drained. He shouldn't have sketched it. No longer a nightmare, it now was real and tangible.

Peter studied it for several minutes, then his eyes looked over at the seascape Neal had painted but they weren't focusing on it. Neal grew increasingly anxious as the minutes dragged. He was probably wondering how best to persuade him to see a psychiatrist as quickly as possible. Finally Peter returned the sketch saying, "I believe I've seen this before."

"You have?" Neal blurted, almost spilling his coffee. "Where?"

"In a book illustration in the vault of the Miskatonic library. I was researching some wall paintings I'd found in Morocco. I'd like to refresh my memory but I believe what you drew may be similar to what I saw. Have you heard of a book called the _Necronomicon_?"

"My advisor, Thaddeus Shrewsbury, was working on a translation of the appendices when he fell ill. I've long wanted to examine the book, but I haven't been able to obtain permission to enter the vault."

"I'm not surprised. The head librarian is a fierce guardian of the vault and the secrets it contains. Lavinia only granted me access two years ago. Perhaps Thaddeus described the creature to you?"

"And in the panic of the moment I pictured it in my mind? That seems the most likely explanation, but I don't recall that he ever mentioned it, and I'm sure I would have remembered something so horrific." Neal studied his sketch again. It seemed so real. How could it have been something he simply imagined? But that had to be it. Was he losing his grasp on reality?

Peter was continuing to talk, urging Neal to accompany him to the library. He even wanted to approach Lavinia Armitage and try to gain her permission to let Neal join him in the vault. Neal knew that would be a futile effort, but Peter was probably thinking that once Neal saw the illustration, he'd remember Shrewsbury having told him about it. At last Neal reluctantly agreed to go with him, although he didn't see how the confirmation that he was hallucinating monsters would do any good. Were Peter's efforts an attempt to get him to seek professional help?

What was even more surprising was that Peter seemed in no hurry to leave. Surely he'd heard enough of Neal's wild stories. Did he actually want to sit and hear more ravings of a lunatic? Incredible as it sounded, that seemed to be the case. Peter wandered off on a tangent, relating anecdotes from his expeditions. Was he trying to get Neal to relax? But why should he care? Neal was a stranger who'd wandered into his office and proceeded to make a spectacle of himself.

Still there was something comforting in his awkward jokes like the lick of a large shaggy dog. It made him wonder … "Do you have a dog?" Neal asked abruptly.

Peter paused. "I do, as a matter of fact. Why? Do I have dog hair on my jacket?"

"No, it just seemed like you should own a dog. What's its name?"

"Satchmo. He's a yellow Lab. We adopted him when we got married. I'm away so much I figured he'd be good company for Elizabeth. She was the one who named him. Rather a weird name for a dog."

"I don't think so. I like it."

When they finally left the coffeehouse, the clouds had dispersed. The stars were out, shining with a brilliance that the lights of Arkham couldn't dim.

"It's late," Peter said. "You want a taxi?"

"No need. I live close by, on Cedar Street."

Peter looked at him, startled. "You do? So do I. We've been neighbors and didn't know it. Mine is the blue townhouse near Falcon Lane."

"I know that place. It's four blocks from where I live. We can walk together."

"Which house do you live in?"

"The green corner house at Swan Street."

"The mansion? I'm impressed."

"Don't be. I just rent the apartment in the loft. The owner is June Parker. Have you met her?"

"Is she Byron Parker's widow? Her husband taught jazz at the music conservatory I believe."

"That's right. Byron was a legend on the saxophone. He made Miskatonic a Mecca for jazz music and had been the force behind the summer jazz festival. His death was a tragic loss not only to June but to the world of music. June's a singer, but doesn't perform much now."

"Elizabeth's very fond of jazz. I remember her mentioning both of the Parkers to me."

"Would you like to come for breakfast before going to the police station? You could meet June. She has the best Italian roast in town, even better than Dorian's."

"I'd like that," Peter said with a smile. "Then after our meeting with Detective Briscoe, I'll take the artifact to the chemistry department for Cyrus to analyze. Perhaps he can determine why it has that effect on you. I'd already tested it and I know it's not radioactive, but there has to be some rational cause."

"You don't think I'm simply losing my mind?" Neal said, attempting to make a joke out of it.

Peter shot him a quick glance. "That's the easy answer, but I don't think there's anything simple about what you described. I don't know if you find that comforting?"

"I'm not sure either." As they walked, Neal gazed up at the stars. There it was winking at him—Algol. It was one of the first stars Mozzie had taught him. Neal continued to be fascinated by the way it winked. The scientific explanation that it was composed of three eclipsing stars only made him appreciate it more.

When Mozzie found out about Neal's childhood, he'd dubbed Neal _Perseus_ and had him learn the constellation. The tale of how Perseus chopped off the head of Medusa made quite an impression on a boy of twelve who was fighting his own monsters at home. Mozzie took particular delight in pointing out the stars which represented the snakes making up Medusa's hair. And within that mass of writhing tentacles was Algol. The eye of Medusa some called it. Neal preferred its other name—Demon Star.

"What are you looking at?"

Neal pointed high in the northern sky. "Algol, the Demon Star."

Peter looked up. "Yes, I see it. Interesting multiple-star system. Are you an astronomy buff?"

"Not really. I have a friend who taught me the constellations." Normally Neal enjoyed looking at Algol, but not tonight. It was as if the star was seeking him out. He had a moment's wild fantasy that the monster in the bookstore had been sent by Algol the Demon Star. Mozzie had called Neal _Perseus_ , the Medusa-slayer. Was Medusa taking her revenge on him?

**Peter's townhouse. September 12, 1975. Friday evening**

Peter found El waiting for him at the end of a long day. She'd already walked Satchmo and had changed into a robe. "I was going to get us ice cream," she said, "but would you rather have a sandwich? We have leftover ham in the fridge."

"No, just ice cream, thanks. I may make a midnight raid later on."

"You won't have long to wait. It's already eleven. Your call from the police station was cryptic to say the least. I'll trade you chocolate syrup for a better explanation."

"Deal." Peter followed El into the kitchen and filled her in on what had happened since Neal first approached him at the lecture as she dished out bowls of rocky road ice cream. "Honestly, hon, this has to be the strangest day I've ever had in my life."

El was a practicing neurologist and clinical professor at the University Medical Center. Peter was counting on her advice on how he should proceed. As he described the day's events, her skepticism was front and center. "It seems unlike you to take such an interest in someone you barely met. Neal must have struck a responsive chord."

"I don't know how to describe it. When I first saw him, I thought he was simply an overworked, strung-out senior. But there's something about him—beyond his obviously keen intellect—that's very compelling."

They took their bowls of ice cream and returned to the living room with Satchmo tagging along every step of the way.

El curled her legs up on the couch and held her bowl high out of Satchmo's reach. "I could play psychologist and say your response was triggered by your associating Neal with your brother Tom." As Peter started to interrupt, she held up a hand. "But given the way you're rolling your eyes at me, I won't. However, you're also alerting me to the fact that you're not being very objective about this."

"I admit it sounds crazy, but you have to agree he was right about the bookstore."

She nodded. "And that sketch of the soapstone he showed you must have made you wonder if there could possibly be any truth to his story." She considered for a moment. "Wasn't there an account of your discovery in the _Egyptian Archaeology Bulletin_ a couple of months ago?"

"It was only a brief description of the artifact, but it could have triggered his dream. He claimed, though, that he hadn't read anything about it."

"His memory could be impaired. What happened in your office could have been a panic attack."

"But why would it have stopped when I returned the object to the safe?"

"If he'd convinced himself that the soapstone was affecting him, then simply the knowledge it was no longer present could have been enough to stop the attack. You said he mentioned it was acting like kryptonite on him. On a subconscious level, he may be channeling Superman." Peter started to laugh, but she held up a warning hand. "It's not a laughing matter. I've read accounts in psychology journals of the Superman complex, a type of mental disorder. Neal fits the profile. He's young, overworked, probably an idealist. In the aftermath of the war, scientists have identified several syndromes which are associated with the trauma of war and the helplessness people felt. What Neal experienced could have been driven by a defensive mechanism of his subconscious."

"But how could Neal have known about the murder?"

"Perhaps Seth mentioned he was concerned about break-ins. Arkham's had a rash of them recently. You mentioned Neal and Seth were friends. Neal could have been anxious about him."

"Another coincidence?" The scientist in him refused to give much credence to coincidences. There had to be a rational explanation for what had occurred.

El was also looking troubled. "And the monster he described . . . To me that sounds like schizophrenia. The trauma of the attack in the bookstore could have provoked a psychotic episode. Anxiety, distorted view of reality, confusion, visual or auditory hallucinations—those are all common symptoms of the disorder."

Peter had to agree that logically what she was saying made the most sense. "Neal's advisor could have described the illustration I saw in the library and he simply doesn't remember."

She nodded. "Schizophrenia is a difficult disease, both to diagnose and to treat. One of the greatest challenges is getting people to recognize they have it."

"I knew something strange was going on with Neal during the attack at the bookstore, but I had to drag it out of him. When he finally admitted what he thought he'd seen, I didn't know what to say. He was clearly worried that I thought he was hallucinating. Neal was adamant in his refusal to see a doctor and I can't force him against his will. It's a shame, though. A promising career awaits him if he can somehow avoid self-destructing first."

El placed a hand on his arm. "He may have simply been overwrought from having seen his friend murdered. We shouldn't leap to any conclusions. More than anything else, Neal needs a friend right now. He reached out to you. If you want to help, your best approach may be to simply keep the conversation going. You'll see him tomorrow. As he gets to know you better, you may be able to convince him to see a doctor. Based on everything you've told me, Neal needs a clinical evaluation to determine the root cause of his symptoms. For his sake, I hope you can persuade him."

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

June was still up when Neal returned home. She claimed she couldn't put her book down, but the hug she gave him told the truth. She'd been worried about him. To stay out so late wasn't his typical pattern. Since his return to Arkham, his social life had been non-existent.

He told her in a few words about the death of Seth Whateley at the bookstore. June's reaction was understandable. She knew his father well. Hiram Whateley was one of the gentlest men Neal knew. As Neal thought about what he must be going through, his own grief became overwhelming. They wound up talking late into the night about the Whateleys. Neal didn't tell her about his hallucination in the bookstore. She was already concerned about him. No need to add to her anxiety.

By the time Neal mounted the stairs to his loft, he was convinced he was too drained of any emotion to have nightmares, and such was the case. Instead of being pummeled by a sandstorm, he walked along the beach of a far-off ocean. He'd had that dream before, particularly in Oxford, but not since his return. It must have been triggered by Peter noticing the painting which was based on his dream. He was glad he hadn't included the moons—one so large it filled much of the horizon. Peter thought he liked science fiction. Best to leave it at that.

Neal took his time getting dressed. Peter wasn't coming over till eight thirty, if he came. Neal wouldn't be surprised if he didn't. Once he got home and talked to his wife, he must have realized how insane Neal's words sounded. Given the events of the previous day—Neal's collapse in Peter's office, the frantic race to the bookstore, the hallucination—Peter would want to distance himself as much as possible. They'd make their statements to Detective Briscoe and that would be the end of it.

If he were lucky.

Would Peter report him to the provost? He easily could. Alert him that Neal might be too unstable to teach. Would Peter be right?

Having succeeded in thoroughly depressing himself, Neal went downstairs to wait for Peter, or his call, or the call from the provost. . . .

"Stop pacing," June said. "He'll show. You aren't nervous about speaking to the police, are you?"

"No, it's not that." Neal took a breath and sank back down in the chair.

"What is it then?"

The ring of the doorbell saved him from having to answer. Neal sprang out of the chair to open the door. At the sight of Peter, alone with no sign of a burly medic carrying a straitjacket, Neal exhaled in relief.

"Did I remember the correct time?" Peter asked with a smile. "You seem surprised to see me."

"I wasn't sure you'd come," Neal admitted, letting him in.

"Why wouldn't I?" Peter said, looking amused. "I'm not going to miss out on an opportunity to meet June Parker, and I don't know about you, but I've no intention of getting on Detective Briscoe's bad side."

Peter was carrying a leather briefcase. "Is it inside?" Neal asked.

He nodded. "Could you tell?"

"No." Perhaps yesterday had been an anomaly and whatever had caused his disorientation was no longer an issue.

"I placed it in a lead-lined bag that I use to carry film on flights," he warned. "That may be blocking the effect." Peter left the briefcase by the front door and walked in to meet June.

"It's an honor," Peter said, shaking her hand. "My wife is a big fan of your husband's music. She must have all his records."

June was gracious in her welcome. "You must come back with your wife sometime. We'll make it a jazz party." Taking him by the arm, she led him to the dining room. "Thank you for all the assistance you provided Neal yesterday. If you hadn't been with him in the bookstore, the tragedy might have been far worse."

June's beautiful house impressed him as it did all who saw it. Neal had originally planned to take Peter upstairs to his loft, but June insisted they stay downstairs. She'd had her housekeeper prepare omelets and there was fresh fruit on the table. After chatting with them a few minutes, she left, claiming she needed to get ready for an appointment, but Neal knew it was to give them privacy.

He'd been reticent to discuss his dreams with June as he didn't want to concern her, but she was too perceptive not to notice that there'd been something wrong for quite a while. When they talked last night, he described his reaction to the artifact in more detail than he'd originally intended. June realized how much he was counting on Peter to help solve the mystery.

"Did you dream of the soapstone last night?" Peter asked.

"No, for once," Neal replied, "but I studied the sketch I'd made of the one we found in the bookstore. The marks are remarkably similar. They must be a writing system. I know cuneiform and although they share certain characteristics, cuneiform doesn't have twisted tails. These marks resemble tadpoles, like some archaic Chinese scripts. Could you supply me with a photo of your artifact?"

"Of course. The tomb where I found it dates back to roughly thirty-two hundred BC. Early cuneiform was in existence then. Perhaps the soapstone incisions are derived from it."

Neal stood up to refill their coffee cups. "What is it about that soapstone? Am I going to pass out in front of Detective Briscoe? You don't suffer any effect." Neal ran a quick hand through his hair as he contemplated the looming disaster awaiting him. "Briscoe won't be as tolerant as you. If she doesn't lock me up, she'll put me on the fast train to the funny farm."

"No she won't. Besides, yesterday may have been a fluke incident. Last night the soapstone in the bookshop didn't provoke a strong reaction. Would you like to try it again?"

"I don't think I have a choice. If the effect's the same, I'll have to think of an excuse to leave before you show it to her." When Peter didn't debate the point, Neal breathed easier. Over breakfast they discussed their plans for the day. Peter had called Professor Dexter before coming to June's. They'd head straight for his office at the university after their appointment at the police station.

When they finished breakfast, Peter looked over at him. "You ready?"

Neal nodded, taking a slow breath. They rose from the table and returned to the entry. Peter opened his briefcase and pulled out the lead-lined pouch. Neal began to relax. Still no effect. Yesterday's reaction must have simply been nerves.

Peter removed the clamp and pulled out the plastic case containing the artifact. As soon as he unsealed the pouch, Neal felt his heart start to race. His vision tunneling, he staggered back against the wall, flinging out an arm to brace himself, as Peter quickly returned the soapstone to the envelope. Neal collapsed into the hall chair to catch his breath while his heart gradually stopped performing gymnastics. So much for a temporary aberration.

"I guess that answers our question," Peter said mildly, "but it doesn't solve the riddle of why you weren't affected by the soapstone at the bookstore. How do you want to handle it with Detective Briscoe?"

"What if I show up late? You could tell her I had to pinch-hit for a lecturer who was sick. If I'm fifteen minutes late, will that give you enough time?"

Peter nodded. "It should suffice. I'll make an excuse that I don't want to expose the artifact to light any longer than necessary and will make sure it's back in the envelope by ten fifteen."

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

When Peter arrived at the police station Briscoe was waiting for him. She led him to a small office which he judged to be an interrogation room while he explained Neal's absence. "He assured me he'll be here in a few minutes, but he didn't want you to have to wait on him."

"I appreciate that," she said, motioning him to take a seat. "Did you bring the soapstone?"

Peter nodded as he opened his briefcase and took out the pouch. He put latex gloves on and spread out a protective cloth on the desk.

Briscoe watched his preparations warily. "It's not radioactive, is it?"

"No. It's already been tested, but because of its extreme age, precautions are necessary. It appears to be sensitive to fluorescent light so I can only leave it out for a short period of time." Not really a lie. It was possibly true. He hadn't conducted light experiments on the object. He was simply enforcing reasonable precautions. Peter opened up the plastic protective case containing the soapstone and placed it on the cloth.

Briscoe stared at it intently, bending over for a closer look but not attempting to touch it. She didn't appear to suffer any physical reaction. Not a surprise. Neal was the only one to his knowledge who was affected by it. Peter proceeded to explain the circumstances of its discovery.

"I hesitate to take a photograph. The flash might harm it. Could you provide me with one?"

Peter agreed and returned the soapstone to his briefcase.

She reached into a desk drawer and pulled out a manila folder. "Last night was not the first time I'd seen an object like this. What I'm about to tell you has not been revealed to the public, but I spoke with Captain Hughes about it and he's given me clearance to fill you in. Your assistance could be vital in our efforts to understand what we're dealing with." She paused for a moment before proceeding, no doubt to let her words sink in, but they only served to make Peter more eager to hear her revelation. "Over the past four months Arkham has experienced a string of murders." She spread several photos on the table. "You should look at these."

The photos all showed soapstone objects similar to the one left in place the previous night. None of the objects had all five arms—the most complete had three—but all bore similar marks. Peter was still studying the photos when a light knock was heard at the door. It was Neal, escorted by Detective Jones. Neal apologized for his late arrival as he walked in. He glanced briefly at Peter's closed briefcase but showed no sign of physical distress.

"Would you mind repeating your comments?" Peter asked. "My colleague may have insights." Neal had already spotted the photos and couldn't take his eyes off them.

Briscoe explained that the photos had been taken as part of the crime scene investigations of the six previous murders. "In each case up to last night, the perp got away before the body was discovered."

"Has last night's assailant been identified?" Peter asked.

She nodded. "Petty thief. He's been arrested for a few break-ins. Nothing violent till last night. The autopsy was conducted overnight. A heart attack appears to be the likely cause."

"Could we examine the stones?" Neal asked.

"That's not possible." She paused for a moment, studying them. "Here's the thing: we no longer have them, and before I go further, I must have your promise that you will tell no one about what I'm going to reveal without our permission. Captain Hughes is allowing your participation because of your professions and specialized knowledge, but you'll need to sign confidentiality agreements." She passed them two forms.

After they signed the papers they quickly learned the reason for the extraordinary measures.

"You're going to find this hard to believe." She eyed them guardedly. If she only knew. By now, those words were beginning to sound routine. "The stones have all disappeared from the evidence vault. Within twenty-four hours of us taking them into custody, _poof_ , and they're gone. The first time it happened, we thought we'd misplaced the stone. When it happened a second time, we added extra security cameras. With the fifth stone, we actually captured the object in the act of disappearing. We slowed down the film. One millisecond it was there, the next it disappeared. Yours is the only soapstone I know of that hasn't vanished." She paused, waiting for their reactions.

"What about the stone from last night?" Neal asked.

"It disappeared at 3:05 a.m. All we have left are the photographs." She turned to Peter. "Have you been able to date the stone in your possession?"

He nodded. "It's over five thousand years old."

"Could all these stones be Egyptian artifacts?"

"Possibly they're of the same age," he acknowledged, "but without tests it's impossible to know. As to why they disappeared, I have no idea."

"I've never been a fan of science fiction," she said, "but what happened to these stones … It's as if I landed in an episode of the _Twilight Zone_. We're completely baffled. We didn't want to cause a panic about unseen forces at work and that's why nothing has been said publicly."

"I suspect the marks are an unknown script," Neal said, his tenor voice husky with excitement. "If we can find more stones I may be able to decipher the meaning. The criminals could have access to artifacts from a looted tomb and they're using the stones as signals or messages."

"But why would they vanish?" Peter objected. "If the stones are from the same era as the piece I found, that implies they survived for thousands of years only to disintegrate instantaneously."

"Perhaps there's something in our atmosphere that causes the phenomenon?" Neal suggested.

"Maybe on _Star Trek_ , but not in Arkham, Massachusetts, and even on _Star Trek_ the writers had sense enough not to show people vanishing instantaneously when they were teleported to another world. People—or soapstones—don't just _poof_ and disappear. Nothing _poofs_ in our world."

"Well, these stones did," Diana said impatiently. "I'm not in the habit of inventing fantasies to explain what happened to evidence. If I said the stone _poofed_ , it _poofed_."

Unexpectedly Neal supported her. "Bubbles _poof_. We shouldn't close our minds to exploring all options."

"I'm not buying it," Peter dismissed. "There has to be a rational explanation and _poofing_ doesn't cut it. We're scientists. We deal in facts, hard evidence."

"On that we agree," Diana said, "but there's precious little of that with these crimes. We've heard rumors of cult involvement, but we've never been able to substantiate the stories."

They spent the next several minutes going over the particulars of each murder. All appeared to be random acts of violence. They were conducted at night. Robbery didn't appear to be a motive as there was no proof anything had ever been taken. The first murder had occurred down by the wharf, when a vagrant had been killed. The next incident had been near Swan Hill Cemetery when an elderly woman had been struck down after she'd paid a visit to her husband's grave. One murder victim had been discovered at the amusement park over the summer and another found in a car on the outskirts of town. The victims had nothing in common. The police were at a loss how to proceed.

By now they were all on a first name basis. Diana had an abrupt no-nonsense attitude which Peter could relate to. Her passion to uncover the truth was similar to their own scientific curiosity. She agreed to provide them with copies of the photos in return for their promise to inform her of any findings relevant to the investigation.

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

By the time the meeting concluded, Neal decided he liked Diana even if she were abrasive. She was no longer treating him as a suspect—a decided plus. He was surprised at how much he enjoyed discussing the cases, and he'd gained new insights into Peter's character. It would be so easy to tease him about _poofs_ and transporter platforms, but own situation was too tenuous to test Peter's tolerance.

On their way out, Neal noticed a young redhead peppering the desk sergeant with questions. She was demanding details about the murder last night and he wasn't giving her any satisfaction. Neal grinned when he saw her. Sara Pabodie, cub reporter. Who else would have the chutzpah to give the sergeant such a hard time?

A smile flashed across her face when she spotted Neal. Abandoning the sergeant, she strode over to greet him. "What are you doing here?"

"Not a surprise to see you." Neal turned to Peter. "Allow me to introduce you to Arkham's next Bob Woodward—Sara Pabodie, ace news-ferret."

She made a face. "Investigative journalist, please."

Sara had been a journalism student at Miskatonic. They were the same age, but she was a few years behind him since he'd started early. He and Kate had double-dated a few times with her and . . .who was her boyfriend? Oh, yeah. Bryan. Sighin' Bryan. Kate had teased Sara unmercifully about him. The guy was besotted with Sara, sighing all the time. Too bad he didn't have a brain. He'd gotten in on a football scholarship. Neal never could understand what Sara saw in Bryan—other than his good looks and athlete's body, that is. Kate had written she finally wised up last year and dumped him.

"You probably don't remember me, Professor Gilman. I attended your lecture on ancient civilizations last year. There must have been over two hundred students in the class."

"Call me Peter and yes, I remember you. You were the one always staying late to zing me with questions. I see you haven't changed at all."

She laughed. "Not one whit. I've always been nosy, and now I'm getting paid for it."

"You're working full time for the _Arkham Gazette_?" Neal asked

She nodded and pulled her notebook out of her bag. "Were you here about Seth? Anything you can tell me, on or off the record?"

"Sorry, Sara," Peter said. "We have nothing to report."

She handed out copies of her business card. "Well, if you should happen to remember anything, you'll call me? I'm looking for my first exclusive." As Neal turned to leave, she placed a hand on his arm and pulled him aside. "Hey, why didn't you return my call?" She lowered her voice. "I know it's not easy, but still …"

Why was it he always wound up apologizing to her? He fell back on the easy excuse. "I'd been so focused on preparing for the term, my course notes —"

"—and being a hermit? Shutting yourself off from the world won't help, you know. You need to let your friends in."

He made an impatient gesture. "I know. I'm trying."

"You may think you are, but try harder," she said bluntly and added in a softer voice, "She was my friend too. You ever want to talk about it, you give me a call, okay? And if I don't hear anything, I'm calling you. I don't have to remind you how persistent I am."

Sara meant well, but Neal didn't know if he'd ever feel ready to discuss his loss. He rejoined Peter and they exited the police station. He hoped Peter wouldn't ask about their exchange. Neal had done enough soul-exposing for one day.

"I assume you noticed Diana said the murders started four months ago," Peter said. "Didn't you tell me you started having your dream four months ago?"

Neal nodded. "I'd been wondering about that too. You mentioned you brought your stone back from Egypt about the same time."

"Interesting coincidence, if that's what it is. Care to speculate?"

"It's tempting to say there's a relation between the stones left behind at the crime scenes, your artifact, and the stone I've been seeing in my dreams, but I don't have a clue as to what it would be." He turned to look at Peter. "You have any theories?"

Peter shook his head. "No, but it makes me all the more eager to have that soapstone analyzed. Cyrus has worked with me on many an artifact analysis, but I daresay none as intriguing."

"I'm counting on him discovering a physical explanation for why it affects me to prove that I'm not slowly going out of my mind," Neal admitted. "Why am I the only one who has a reaction to it? That doesn't make any sense."

"I can't begin to explain it. It's one of many mysteries we have to deal with." Peter paused and cleared his throat. "Remember, we're scientists. We deal with the rational, the tangible. Speculation has its place but we need to be cautious about theories which don't have a chance of being substantiated."

Neal wasn't surprised at his words. Peter hadn't mentioned Neal's hallucination in the bookstore but it must be weighing on his mind. "Understood. No _poofs_." He couldn't resist adding in a lower voice, "or jackal-headed monsters."

Peter winced. "Look, I know you're as confused as I am about what's happening. I'm doing my best to keep an open mind. Let's focus on the soapstone for now, okay?" Before Neal could reply, he switched the subject. "Have you ever met Cyrus?"

"We've exchanged pleasantries but that's about it. Mozzie introduced me to him when I returned from Oxford."

"Mozzie?"

"Professor Dante Atwood. Mozzie is his nickname. He holds the Karl Jansky seat in astrophysics. You've met him surely?"

"Briefly, but he seems to avoid the standard social gatherings. A few times I attempted conversation and all I got was arcane gibberish."

Neal smiled at the accuracy of his description. "Mozzie does tend to live in his own world of abstruse calculations."

"How did you get to know him?"

"It's a long story. He's the reason I'm at Miskatonic."

 

* * *

_Notes: Coming next week in Chapter 3: A Reunion, Cyrus Dexter makes an unexpected discovery and Neal meets Elizabeth. Mozzie returns from India and Neal discovers that the streets of Arkham at night are not as safe as he thought._

_Diana enjoys sprinkling references to her world in her stories. Dorian's coffeehouse includes paintings from local artists on the walls as does Neal's favorite restaurant in New York City, La Palette. In Diana's world, Peter called Neal Perseus when they went stargazing over Halloween. At the time, Peter said that the Medusa head represented Neal's struggle with a tentacle-faced attacker when they were kidnapped by Azathoth. (Chapter 24 of The Woman in Blue)_

_Karl Jansky was one of the founding figures in radio astronomy. In 1931 he discovered radio waves coming from our galaxy. Mozzie, who is a card-carrying member of SETI, the organization searching for extraterrestrial life suggested that his character should hold Jansky's chair. In Caffrey Conversation, Diana receives advice from her friends on how to craft her characters. I'm even more fortunate to have Penna Nomen's help. Thanks, Penna!_

_For our blog, I've written about the expansion of Elizabeth's role in Arkham Files. Penna's new post is about Elizabeth's husband Peter. It's a fascinating analysis of the ways our AU differs from the canon treatment._

**_Blog_** _: Penna Nomen & Silbrith Conversation:_ [_www.pennasilbrithconversation.blogspot.com_](http://www.pennasilbrithconversation.blogspot.com)  
  
**_Chapter Visuals and Music_** _: Arkham Files board at the Caffrey Conversation Pinterest website:_[ _www.pinterest.com/caffreycon_](http://www.pinterest.com/caffreycon)


	3. A Reunion

**Miskatonic University. September 13, 1975. Saturday morning.**

On a crisp Saturday morning, Neal found himself matching Peter's purposeful strides as they walked through the quad at Miskatonic University to the Derleth Hall of Science. Neal was no stranger to the building. Mozzie had his office on the top floor. He and Mozzie had spent many a night gazing at the stars from the rooftop. Neal was less familiar with their current destination and let Peter lead the way to the chemistry lab.

Cyrus Dexter was waiting for them. His dark curly hair was sprinkled with more frost than the last time Neal had seen him, but his smile was just as cordial. He sprang up from his seat at a lab table and rushed over to greet them. "Peter, at last, I've been counting the minutes, and Neal,"—he pumped his hand vigorously—"a real pleasure to see you again. Please, pull up a seat. We must talk." Not waiting for them to comply, he grabbed stools and formed a circle for them to sit together.

Peter explained to Cyrus how he'd discovered the soapstone on a dig in Abydos. "I believe the tomb to be that of Iry-Hor, one of the earliest pharaohs of the Protodynastic Period. Other objects in the tomb have been dated to the thirty-second century BC."

Cyrus turned to Neal, "And this is the object that throws you into a seizure?"

Neal winced and hastened to clarify. "Seizure isn't the right word."

Cyrus brushed off his fumbling attempts to describe what the experience was like. "Has anyone else experienced a similar effect?"

Peter shook his head. "The soapstone has been handled by many others—my colleagues on the dig, Egyptian officials, several at the university—but Neal's the only one who's had this reaction."

Cyrus narrowed his eyes as he studied Neal. "You haven't been experimenting with LSD or any other hallucinogens? Do you smoke pot?"

Neal felt his face redden. "No, the strongest drug I take is wine. I'm not taking any prescription meds. Passed my physical in July with no problems."

Cyrus raised a hand. "I get the picture. Sorry, but I had to ask." His face crinkled into a smile. "With Mozzie for a friend . . ."

Neal regretted his outburst. "Nothing to apologize for. I'm a little sensitive about it."

"Perfectly understandable. Now isn't it time I see this mysterious object?" Cyrus rubbed his hands together in anticipation.

Peter set his briefcase on the lab table and took out the lead-lined pouch. He glanced over at Neal. "Do you want to leave the lab?"

Neal took a breath. Surely after having been exposed to the artifact on three separate occasions, he shouldn't have any difficulty. This morning he hadn't experienced any visions. He'd take that as a sign he was tolerating it better. "Not necessary. As long as I'm not standing next to it, I should be fine."

Peter raised an eyebrow at his answer but didn't comment. Neal stood up and walked over to a lab bench close to the door, a distance of about twenty feet away.

Peter removed the clamp and pulled out the soapstone. Cyrus peered at it for a long moment then over at Neal. Neal could feel the disorientation starting, but slowed his breathing to compensate. He rested an arm on the lab table—not that he needed any support—and stared at the stone. No psychedelic visions. That was a relief. He was right—he could control the effect.

Suddenly Peter was standing in front of him. How'd he get there so fast? Neal hadn't seen him walk over. Grabbing his arm, Peter pushed him onto a lab stool.

Neal looked for the carving, but it was gone. "What happened?"

"You were unresponsive—nearly passed out again. Cyrus took it away."

Neal groaned. "Not quite as adjusted as I thought." His head was pounding and he rested his forehead on his propped up arm.

"Apparently not. Did you have any visions?"

"No, and that really doesn't seem fair. If I'm going to keel over, I should get a reward, right?" He heard a low chuckle and turned his head to see Cyrus standing beside him. When had he gotten there?

"That was quite an impressive shade of green you turned. I feel like I should put you under the microscope instead of the artifact."

Neal grimaced and sought to change the topic. "Where is it?"

"Let's make that an experiment, shall we?" Cyrus said cheerfully, slapping him on the back. "Rather like pin the tail on the donkey, always one of my favorite games. I've placed the soapstone inside a piece of equipment which should block most if not all of the effect it has on you. Can you sense where it is?"

"Like a Geiger counter?"

Peter brushed away his sarcasm and trumped it. "That's right. Neal Carter, boy wonder and human Geiger counter."

Neal rolled his eyes at him. "Seriously?" but he got up as requested. Peter reached out an arm to steady him, but he shook it off, the initial dizziness quickly dissipating. He strolled past the lab tables, feeling rather ridiculous. Should he shuffle forward with his arms extended like a zombie? Best not to risk it. They might not believe it was a joke.

The lab was a large one with enough work spaces for at least fifty people and an array of machines and miscellaneous lab equipment along the walls. As he walked he felt the initial disorientation as if the world were slightly at a tilt. The sensation increased when he approached the south wall. He headed for a large machine in the center of the wall and pointed to it from a safe distance. "Did I find the donkey?"

Cyrus beamed. "Excellent. Yes, you did. What you found was an x-ray fluorescence spectrometer. By bombarding the soapstone with x-rays I'll be able to determine the precise chemical makeup of the artifact."

"I've often worked with Cyrus on dating analysis," Peter added. "He's an expert. If there's anything strange in the chemical composition, Cyrus will find it."

"How long will the procedure take?" Neal asked.

"I should have the results back this afternoon. Could you return at two?"

Peter nodded. "I can spend the time working on my lecture notes for next week. How about you, Neal?"

"I'd like to pay a call on Seth's father. I contacted him this morning after you left for the police station."

"How's he holding up?"

"Not well. His daughter's returning home from Germany where she'd been spending junior year abroad. I expect she'll transfer back to Miskatonic now." Mentioning their names brought back the grief he'd felt at the loss of his friend. He couldn't imagine the sense of loss his father must be feeling.

"You haven't had time to mourn either," Peter said. "You don't need to come back here. I can fill you in later."

"Thanks, but I want to. I have to know if there's any scientific basis to what occurred."

As they walked out of the lab, Peter stopped him in the corridor. "I wish you'd reconsider seeing a doctor. This is now the fourth time you've experienced a strong reaction to the artifact. I know you say you're fine afterward, but its effects may be cumulative."

Neal shook his head. "This can't be radiation sickness since the stone's not radioactive. You've been exposed to it for months and you're not experiencing any effect."

"Exactly. Isn't it time you find out why you are?"

"Let's assume for a minute I submit to an examination. The stone won't be there. I'll be fine. They'll think I'm imagining things. That will look great on my record. And if they do find something wrong with me, how in the world would I explain it? No, I can't take that risk."

Peter frowned. "You may be taking an even greater risk by doing nothing. You should reconsider."

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

When Peter returned to the chemistry lab, Neal hadn't arrived yet. Cyrus appeared uncharacteristically tense, his typically cheerful expression replaced by a slight frown. When Peter greeted him, he waved vaguely to the far corner of the lab, muttering that he needed more time.

Peter pulled out his notes on the dig at Abydos and sat down to review them. He'd prepared meticulous documentation of the soapstone discovery. The tomb had apparently been looted at least once in the past. Peter had found a large number of potsherds which he'd brought home to catalog. Some of them had marks but they were in such fragmentary condition that processing them would take months. His team had also found several clay seals. A few had been inscribed with Iry-Hor's hieroglyph—a Horus falcon holding the hieroglyph of a mouth by its talons.

The soapstone had been found behind one of the mudbricks making up the wall of the tomb. The brick had become partially dislodged, revealing an inner cavity, or it never would have been discovered. Since the mudbrick in front of it had no marks to distinguish it from any of the other bricks, Peter believed that the artifact had been deliberately concealed.

When Neal arrived, Peter beckoned him over. His eyes were reddened. It must have been an emotional meeting. "How's Hiram holding up?"

"By a thread. He can't imagine who would have done it. Nothing appears to have been taken. Even the money in the cash register tallies with the receipts. Some of the books had been dislodged from their shelves. Hiram speculates that the thieves may have been looking for one book in particular. He's conducting an inventory and will need weeks to complete it. You know how many books he has. His inventory system is so antiquated, he may never know."

"Has the funeral been scheduled?"

"It'll be held on Tuesday evening."

"I'd like to attend."

Neal nodded absently, his thoughts elsewhere.

Peter had called El from his office and her suggestion was a good one, but now that he had the opportunity, he hesitated. Neal was still grieving over the death of his friend. Were they acting too soon? But El felt for Neal's sake they had to make the effort. Peter quieted his remaining qualms and asked, "Do you have any plans tonight?"

Neal looked at him, startled. "What? No, nothing scheduled."

"Why don't you come over for dinner? El's making lasagna. There will be plenty to share."

"Crash your Saturday evening? Thanks, but I don't think I'd be very good company."

"Nonsense. El would like to meet you."

Before Neal could answer, Cyrus walked up and pulled up a stool next to them. "I tested and retested my results and they all point to the same conclusion."

"What?" Peter and Neal asked in unison.

"Your specimen is composed of the usual minerals: talc, magnesite, chlorite and other opaque minerals, with one outstanding exception." He scanned both of them. If he'd any concern they weren't paying attention, he needn't have been. They were both hanging on his every word. "The spectral pattern of one element is unlike any I've ever seen. If my analysis holds up, I believe it may be a completely new element." He let out a long exhale, looking staggered by his revelation.

And well he should. Peter had expected that the analysis would reveal nothing out of the ordinary. If Neal weren't simply hallucinating, he was probably allergic to one of the chemicals. But a new element? "I'm not a chemist but I thought all the stable elements have already been discovered. The elements with higher atomic numbers than uranium have extremely short half-lives and decay rapidly."

"I don't dispute what you said, but the soapstone is telling us that our assumptions are incorrect. This element behaves unlike any I've ever seen. It shows no evidence of decay and yet, if my tests are accurate, has an atomic weight of 134. Up to now the highest number is 118. It sounds incredible and yet that's what my instruments are telling me. And furthermore, it exists not in minute proportions, but the soapstone is laced with it." Cyrus stared at them, awe-struck. "You've brought me the find of the century."

"How about transmutation? Could one of the known elements be displaying unusual properties which would cause the readings? Or perhaps one your machines is malfunctioning."

"I understand your skepticism, Peter. What I've told you is only a preliminary hypothesis. I'll need much more testing of both the specimen and the equipment before making a definitive pronouncement. You mentioned transmutation. That's a process of nuclear decay, but the soapstone is not radioactive. And even if it were, nuclear transmutation would result in a lighter element, not an unknown heavier one."

Could this explain the violent reaction Neal had to the stone? As unlikely as it sounded, Peter found it difficult not to ascribe a link between the mysterious element and the symptoms Neal's displayed. He glanced over at Neal to see how he was handling the revelation. Neal remained quiet, his face troubled.

Cyrus described the research that would be needed to confirm his earlier readings. He'd scraped off a minute portion of the soapstone to use for testing. He also made it clear that he was eager to see them leave so he could return to his work. They agreed to meet the next day to further evaluate the findings.

As they exited Derleth Hall, Peter tried again. "So, seven o'clock. You already know where we live. You'll be there, right? I know you don't want to disappoint my wife, and I've told Satchmo about you. He's excited to meet you."

Neal hesitated for a long moment and started to shake his head.

"I have some rubbings of pyramid texts at home I know you'll be interested in. And if that doesn't convince you, I know this will. I'm told I make the best ice cream sundaes in Arkham. Granted, Satchmo hasn't had the opportunity to sample many others, but for a dog, he has a refined palate, and so it must be true."

Neal relaxed into a smile. "Okay, when you put it that way, how can I refuse? I'll bring some wine . . . and dog biscuits."

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Peter retrieved three water glasses from the cupboard. Neal would arrive shortly, if he came. Would he call at the last minute with an excuse? That would be disappointing but not a surprise.

El paused tearing lettuce into a salad bowl. "Do you think he suspects?"

"That I invited him over so you could evaluate him? I'm sure he's concerned about it. He knows you're a neurologist. This morning when I showed up at June's, it was evident he was worried I'd bail on him. The events of the past day have done a number to his self-confidence. On the walk home last night, he attempted to joke about losing his mind, but his worry was real."

"It's no wonder. The dreams he's been having, his hallucinations, the attack in the bookstore . . . After your call, I went over to the medical center to review his chart. As he told Cyrus, in July he'd gone through the standard tests for a new employee and was in excellent health. It's tempting to say that he simply overworked himself to the state where his brain is playing tricks on him. Did he experience any more hallucinations today?"

"Not to my knowledge, and although he had a physical reaction to the soapstone, he didn't experience any visions from it."

She rinsed her hands and dried them on a towel. "That's a positive sign. Schizophrenia is a difficult diagnosis to make and requires observations over a long period of time. What Neal is exhibiting may simply be a psychosomatic reaction to stress. Anyone who graduated high school at the age of sixteen and powered through to get his doctorate in six years has been putting immense pressure on himself."

Peter placed the glasses on the dining table. "Still, I wish you'd been there. How he knew where that soapstone was defies logic."

"You're sure he hadn't noticed where Cyrus placed it?"

"I don't see how. His back was turned to Cyrus. The kid scared the hell out of me, El. For a few moments, he appeared catatonic."

She shook her head as she reached for the olive oil for the salad dressing. "I wish we didn't have to deceive him, but I believe this is the kindest way under the circumstances. The soapstone is in the lead-shielded pouch in the briefcase which, according to what you've observed, protects Neal from its effects. I hypothesize that on a subconscious level Neal's brain is tricking him into a psychosomatic reaction and that the soapstone is not responsible. I admit the possible discovery of a new element is mind-boggling. But that it produced a reaction in only Neal?" She paused measuring out the olive oil to ponder for a moment. "He could have an extreme sensitivity to something within the soapstone, but the odds are against it."

"You mentioned the Superman complex. Now that Neal knows about the anomaly he may project the qualities of kryptonite onto the artifact, which could aggravate his condition."

She nodded. "That's my fear. I predict that when you leave the room and remove the stone from the pouch without him being aware of it, he'll experience no reaction."

"And what then? How do we explain our actions to him? On the other hand, if he's affected by it, won't he resent us for the deception?"

She shrugged. "It's a risk we need to take. If I subject him to unnecessary tests, won't that be worse? And prolonging his belief that he's being affected by something in the artifact could cause further damage to what may already be a fragile mental state."

The doorbell rang, answering one question. Peter resolved to cast aside his doubts about the experiment they were about to conduct and went to the door to welcome Neal to their home.

Neal was a congenial guest. In addition to wine, he'd brought over the promised dog biscuits, which immediately resulted in Satchmo becoming his new best friend. Over dinner, Peter got him to open up about his studies in Oxford. El had been interested in the paintings Peter had seen in the coffeehouse and tried to engage him in a discussion of them. Neal shied away from talking about his own works but diverted the conversation to the latest exhibit at the university art museum. From the way he described the artists and their techniques, it was clear Neal had more than a casual knowledge. Peter suspected he was being overly modest about his own ability.

After dinner they returned to the living room for dessert. While El prepared the coffee, Neal took the opportunity to tussle with Satchmo. By the time she brought in the coffee cups, Neal was sitting on the floor surrounded by an assortment of toys Satchmo had fetched for him.

"You're a natural with dogs," she commented. "Satchmo's an excellent judge of character and he's given you high marks. Did you have a dog when you were growing up?"

Neal got off the floor to sit on the couch, which only served to make Satchmo bring over a well-chewed stuffed bunny and plop it next to him. "No, how about you two?"

Peter could have predicted Neal would deflect. He never wanted to talk about his own childhood but he was plainly fascinated by theirs. Hard to fathom why. El had grown up in Providence, the daughter of a family practitioner. Peter's family lived in Concord outside Boston. His dad worked at a global construction company. His mom taught history at the local high school and had sparked his interest in archaeology. Their childhoods had been quite ordinary but Neal reacted as if they were something magical.

When El drew Neal into a conversation about Byron Parker's music, Peter slipped into the hall where he'd left his briefcase. He removed the soapstone and placed it behind the briefcase before returning to the living room.

Neal was still talking with El. Peter took a seat on the far side and gave El a small nod. To Peter's eyes the effects were unmistakable and immediate. The color had already drained from Neal's face like a plug had been pulled. His speech grew hesitant as he slurred and stumbled for words. Neal glanced down at his shaking hand and shot an accusing look at Peter. "Did you get out the starfish?"

El reached for his wrist. "Please blame me. I had to make sure you weren't experiencing a psychosomatic reaction. Do you mind if I take your pulse?"

Neal was beyond responding as his symptoms rapidly grew more acute. While she took his pulse, she asked Peter to bring in her doctor's bag. By the time he returned, Neal was lying on the couch, sweat glistening on his forehead. She took his blood pressure, then told Peter to put the soapstone back in the pouch. Once the stone was safely stowed away, the color slowly returned to Neal's face.

El helped him sit up. While she went over the results, she continued to monitor his condition. "Your heart was behaving normally, but your blood pressure was extremely low, 80 over 60. That by itself would cause your symptoms of dizziness and faintness."

"Keep telling you—it's like kryptonite to me," Neal said, with an attempt to laugh it off. Satchmo seemed to be aware something was wrong. The Lab had pressed himself against Neal's legs and placed his head in his lap. Neal was stroking him continuously. Peter doubted Neal was aware of what he was doing.

"How are you feeling now?" El asked.

"Fine." He brushed back the hair from his face in a nervous gesture. Despite his claim, his appearance suggested otherwise.

"Your blood pressure is back to normal," El noted. "That's a relief. I must confess I was skeptical when Peter mentioned your reaction, but clearly there's something within the artifact that's triggering your symptoms." While Peter went into the kitchen to prepare sundaes, El stayed with Neal and explained her initial apprehensions.

By the time Peter returned, Neal appeared fully recovered and was waving off El's apology. "I don't blame you. I had many of the same concerns. When I asked for a meeting with Peter, it was simply to discuss an object I'd seen in my dreams. I'd never experienced visions while awake or felt the kind of disorientation that the soapstone appears to exert on me." He paused to rescue his sundae. "Hey, Satchmo, that's mine."

Peter groaned. "Meet Satchmo, the thief. Where did we go wrong with his upbringing?"

"That's okay, boy," Neal said in a low voice. "More dog biscuits for you later if you let me have my ice cream." He glanced over at Peter. "If that's allowed?"

"Might as well. He's already spoiled," Peter said.

"It's all my fault," El added. "When Peter's away on a field trip, I sometimes forget and cook for two. Satchmo's developed quite eclectic tastes."

They continued to chat for several minutes. Peter occasionally slanted a glance over at El and could tell she was monitoring Neal closely. Finally it was Neal himself who brought up the subject. "You'd mentioned testing. What do you have in mind?"

"You need a thorough battery of tests to identify any physiological changes that the soapstone is producing. I don't want you to have any more unmonitored exposure until we determine if it's causing any damage."

"I appreciate the recommendation, but the simplest solution is to avoid contact with the artifact."

"Don't you want to understand what's going on?" she asked. "You must be worried."

"But if this goes on my record, what will be the repercussions on my job? Will the university think I'm too unstable to teach? I can't take that risk. I've barely started. They're going to say I faked my physical. That'd be grounds for a dismissal."

Peter started to speak, but El put out a hand to stop him. "I understand your fear," she said, "but it's essential for your health. How about this? I conduct the examination as a special research project. Test results won't be entered into your record and will be kept confidential. No one else—and that includes the university—will have access to them without your permission."

"You can trust her," Peter urged. "You have my word."

"And mine," she added.

"But how can I pay for it?" Neal countered. "If you don't report it, my insurance won't cover it. I don't have that kind of money."

"You don't have to worry about that," El said. "I'll cover the costs in the research budget I have available to me, and your case is a legitimate use of the funds. If you have any free time on Monday, we could do it then and get it over with."

Neal took his time answering, then nodded. "I teach in the afternoon but I'm free in the morning. I'll be there."

El smiled with relief. "Excellent." She turned to Peter. "That will work well for your schedule. I know you don't have classes on Monday morning."

"You need me too?" Peter blurted out. Where had that come from? El hadn't mentioned it earlier, but Neal was grinning at his reaction.

El shrugged. "I need to have another subject to compare Neal's test results with. Since we're keeping this confidential, I'd rather not use one of my research assistants."

"How long is this going to take?"

"It will be a full morning," she warned.

Peter could have grumbled over what it would do to his schedule, but Neal was being asked to do the same. They'd be sufferers together.

El gave Neal the instructions for Monday and he left shortly afterwards, claiming he'd infringed enough on their date night. He agreed to meet Peter the next morning at the library.

Peter walked him to the door. "My apologies again for springing the experiment on you."

Neal waved it off. "I don't blame you or Elizabeth and appreciate her offer."

"You're being very considerate of our date night. I hope we didn't rain on your plans."

Neal hesitated for a brief moment and shook his head. "No such luck." Yet another subject he didn't like to talk about?

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

As Neal walked back to his apartment, he gazed up at the stars shining brilliantly overhead. Algol, the Demon Star, shone balefully in the night sky. After the warmth of Peter's townhouse, the air seemed cold. A sudden gust of wind made him shiver.

Cedar Street and the surrounding area were part of Arkham's historic district. While he'd been away, the street lamps had been refitted as gas lamps. Their flames produced flickering shadows on the cobblestone streets. For a moment Neal studied the shadows of the light poles. No longer friendly, they assumed menacing proportions. Scattered words from a poem by Thomas Hardy came to him—desolate gray specters in the gloom.

Neal shook himself. What, was he afraid of the dark now? He had to get control of his nerves. No wonder Elizabeth had been concerned. Were his dreams making him paranoid? Neal picked up his stride. Sometimes he wondered how much of what he was experiencing was because of Kate and his mind refusing to accept what had happened. Kate had been out of his life for nine months now. It was time to move on.

Peter's mention of a Saturday night date . . . Neal winced. How long had it been? Too depressing to think about. But how could he possibly go on a date when all he wanted was to have Kate back? Hardly fair for whoever was unlucky enough to go out with him.

He wished Mozzie were here now. Mozzie would have made some joke and cheered him up. After a day where he'd too often felt like a prisoner of some demonic experiment, the extent of his exhaustion could no longer be denied. As Neal reviewed the events of the evening, he was filled with embarrassment at his reaction to the soapstone. What must Peter and Elizabeth think of him? Some freak? Last night he'd held out the hope of striking up a friendship with Peter, but now that seemed less likely.

But maybe he was just tired . . . and lonely. He should take a measure of comfort in the fact that Elizabeth believed there was a physical cause.

Neal turned off Cedar Street to stroll along Trinity Avenue before returning home. The shops were closed, but the restaurants were full. The sidewalks were lively with passersby enjoying their Saturday night. As Neal passed a corner bar, a man weaved his way erratically out of the door. Stumbling against Neal, he muttered an apology and went on his way.

Neal froze, shocked. When the man touched him, he had the same vision of the creature that had been in the bookstore.

Neal didn't stop to think what it could mean. He sprinted after the man, following him around a corner into an alleyway. When Neal entered the narrow lane, he spun around, perplexed. Where had he gone? Surely he couldn't have vanished? Neal had been only a few paces behind him. Neal took off at a run, searching the alleys, side streets, everywhere he could think of. But it was like the man had never been there. Had it all been a hallucination?

Neal finally gave up the chase and sagged against a lamp post in frustration. For a long moment, he stood rooted to the spot, his mind going over every detail of what he'd seen, committing it to memory.

Then he brought himself up short. What was he doing? Seeing creatures that couldn't exist?

His mind whirling, he retraced his steps back to Cedar Street. June had left the front door light on for him but there were no lights in the windows. She must have already gone to bed. Just as well. He couldn't tell her he was seeing monsters in the night.

Neal unlocked the front door and went inside, mounting the stairs to his loft on the third floor.

When he opened the door, he was startled to see a figure sitting in the shadows, a glass of wine beside him. "'Follow your inner moonlight; don't hide the madness.' "

"Mozzie, you're back and still quoting Ginsberg!"

"Would you prefer Gandhi?" Mozzie rose to greet him and turned on a light. "Anything happen while I was gone?"

Neal broke into tired laugh, putting off his reply for later. "Why are you sitting in the dark?"

"Thinking and drinking are both best accomplished by starlight."

Neal took off his jacket and joined his friend at the small dining table. Mozzie had been away for the past six months in Bombay, conducting research at the Tata Institute of Fundamental Research with Dr. Jayant Narlikar. "Jayant and I spent many a night under the stars arguing cosmology. I can't say that I convinced him of my theories, but we remain excellent friends." Mozzie paused to consider him with a slight frown. "And as for you, what a pickle you got yourself into while I was gone."

Neal winced. Hard to dispute what he said.

"If it helps, June already filled me in. I had the opportunity to take an earlier flight from Bombay and seized it. Based on what she told me, I'm glad I did. I'd hoped to surprise you at home, but the evening was not without its delights. She and I had an elegant meal followed by a rousing match of _Candy Land_. I won, of course."

"Did you cheat?"

He rolled his eyes. "You need ask?"

"No," Neal said with a fond smile. "It's good to have you back." Mozzie poured him a glass of wine and bit by bit extracted the entire story. At the end, Neal sat back and regarded Mozzie anxiously. "So, you see I took you up on your advice. I didn't hide the madness. Am I insane?"

"No more than I am. I recognize though you may not find that statement as reassuring as I intended it. Allow me to rephrase it. Have you opened your mind to the possibility that the visions are real phenomena of unknown worlds?"

"And those creatures? Are those real too?"

Mozzie didn't reply immediately. "You may be providing me the proof that I need. As you know, I've long held the belief that our universe is not alone, but actually one of a number—perhaps infinite—of parallel universes. The worlds coexist, either side by side or stacked into disk-like membranes of infinite proportions. Have you discovered a way to peer into another universe? Or perhaps you've hit upon wormholes to other planets."

Neal stared at his friend in disbelief. Could he be serious? Neal had expected Mozzie to dismiss them as the hallucinations of an overwrought imagination, but instead he gave every indication of believing what seemed impossible to even contemplate.

"We must explore further. I'll visit Cyrus tomorrow morning. He doesn't know it yet, but he'll be thrilled to have my expert guidance. You should go ahead and meet with Peter at the library." He sat back in his chair and drained the last of his wine. "I'm pleased you went ahead and consulted with Peter since I wasn't available. Although a suit, he has a good reputation and I've attended some of his lectures. I look forward to a fruitful discussion with him."

Mozzie divided the faculty into "suits"—those who wore suits to classes—and "non-suits." Neal had never seen Mozzie in a suit. His standard attire was a turtleneck coupled with a rumpled tweed jacket. Neal was a suit himself, but Mozzie forgave him, saying that he looked so young, he needed to wear something to distinguish himself from his students.

Mozzie got up and clapped him on the shoulder. "Get some sleep while you can. This could be the adventure of a lifetime! If others call you a psychopath, laugh in their faces. We'll be mad together."

 

* * *

_Notes: Neal better take Mozzie's advice and rest up for what will happen in Chapter 4: Tea and Mushrooms. It's safe to say that the Miskatonic University Library is unlike any other college library you may be familiar with._

_I hope you enjoyed Mozzie's debut. Just as in White Collar, he continues to quote Allen Ginsberg. I've written about Mozzie this week for our blog. Penna Nomen is continuing the conversation on Elizabeth in her post: "The Challenge of Elizabeth Burke." The Thomas Hardy poem Neal refers to as he walks home is called "The Darkling Thrush." I've placed a link to it in my blog post._

_Thanks to Penna for providing superlative beta services and to all of you for reading and your comments!_

**_Blog_** _: Penna Nomen & Silbrith Conversation: [www.pennasilbrithconversation.blogspot.com](http://www.pennasilbrithconversation.blogspot.com)_  
  
**_Chapter Visuals and Music_** _: Arkham Files board at the Caffrey Conversation Pinterest website:[www.pinterest.com/caffreycon](http://www.pinterest.com/caffreycon)_


	4. Tea and Mushrooms

**Arkham. September 14, 1975. Sunday morning.**

Saturday night Neal was once again revisited by his recurring dream—the windswept plateau at Abydos, the altar, the soapstone, the brilliant night sky filled with stars. Then the descent down the granite steps into the abyss of terror.

When he'd first encountered that dreaded pit, the shapes were too amorphous to be recognizable, but as he continued to dream, they began to coalesce. Last night he recognized one—the creature from the bookshop. The others, though . . . What monstrosities were they?

As soon as he woke up, Neal sketched as much as he could remember from the plateau. He'd decided to treat his dream not as a vision but as a crime scene. As such he wanted to document everything as carefully as possible—all, that is, except the pit. How could he draw the sounds, the smells, the horror of a realm so evil?

One small comfort. When he awoke, he wasn't as wrecked by the ordeal as on previous occasions. No cold sweats afterward, no shaky hands, no dizziness. Was he getting used to it? Or perhaps it was the thought that it was no longer simply a dream but might have a deeper meaning.

Neal had arranged to meet Peter at ten o'clock on the steps of the Miskatonic Library. The early morning was chilly and Neal wore a heavy turtleneck with his jeans. He liked walking through the quad on Sunday mornings. The campus was at its quietest. Most students were sleeping in after their Saturday nights. He used to be one of them.

Neal paused by a tree in the quad, a tall sugar maple. For a moment he saw Kate sitting at the base of the tree as he'd photographed her. Smiling face, teasing eyes, her dark hair swept back in soft coils . . . Neal swiped a quick hand across his face and strode quickly through the quad and up the hillside to the north.

The university library was housed in one of the most distinctive buildings on campus. It perched on an isolated knoll away from the other buildings, which served to accent its peculiarity. The slate roof of the old red brick building bristled with witch's cap turrets. As a freshman, when Neal first heard the stories of strange lights and unearthly noises emanating from the turrets in the dead of night, he'd thought the upperclassmen were simply pulling his leg. Then he experienced them for himself and he didn't know what to think. He'd asked Mozzie about them and he muttered something unintelligible. When Neal persisted, Mozzie told him to ask the head librarian about it. Very funny. If there had ever been a woman who could turn blood into ice with a mere look, it was Lavinia Armitage. Mozzie knew Dr. Armitage well. She didn't appear to intimidate him. But then nothing much did, except of course, the police.

When Neal arrived at the library, Peter was already waiting for him. "Any dreams last night?" He asked as they walked through the front door.

Neal nodded. "The same one," and fell quiet. Should he mention the encounter the previous evening? The dreams Peter could handle. But what would he think of Neal hallucinating monsters on the streets of Arkham? Despite Mozzie's reassurance, Neal continued to believe he was projecting impressions from the land of his dreams onto the real world. Elizabeth hadn't used the word schizophrenia last night, but she didn't need to. Neal was fully aware what his hallucinations would be labeled. She hadn't mentioned him seeing a psychiatrist . . . yet. But it was coming.

"What is it? Did you have another vision?"

Neal's resolve wavered. Peter was looking at him questioningly but with the eyes of a scientist. And after everything else that had gone on, didn't he have the right to know? Neal had already told Mozzie.

When Neal started to relate his encounter with the creature, Peter stopped him mid-sentence. He led Neal to the back of the library which contained seminar rooms, dismissing the protest of the student assistant. "On a Sunday morning, no one will be holding a seminar."

Peter grabbed the first available seminar room and closed the door behind them. As he grilled Neal for details, Neal wondered if he hadn't missed his calling. He would have made a great prosecuting attorney. Neal gave a full account and added Mozzie's explanation. Surprisingly Peter didn't question the validity of what he'd seen, but refrained himself to a simple statement. "You should have called me."

"I'd already disturbed your Saturday night enough," Neal protested. "Besides, what could you have done? I didn't see any point in going to the police. I've no desire to be considered the town lunatic."

"You have to stop being so hard on yourself. There's no point in denying what happened. I can understand why you don't want to go to the police, but if we're going to work together, you can't hold things back." Peter paused for a moment. "You're sure your advisor didn't show you a sketch from the _Necronomicon_?"

"Positive. Our discussions were limited to an analysis of the language. Thaddeus was preparing a translation of the complete work and wanted my assistance, but Dr. Armitage denied me access to the vault. She said I was too young and couldn't handle it."

"That sounds like Lavinia. I've had many a teaching assistant flee in terror from her blandishments. You were fortunate to have Thaddeus as your advisor. It was my understanding he'd stopped mentoring grad students."

Neal nodded. "I couldn't believe my good fortune."

"I doubt luck had much to do with it. You must have impressed him enough to make him change his mind. A shame what happened to him. I studied the works of his father, Laban Shrewsbury, the noted anthropologist. He was an inspiration to me. For him to die at such an early age was tragic. That family appears to be cursed. How is Thaddeus?"

"They say he may never recover. He's still in a coma in the hospital. It happened the month before I left for Oxford. I visit him whenever I can."

"Did they ever discover what caused him to fall into a coma?"

Neal shook his head. "Brain fever, tumor, tropical disease, I've heard all of them mentioned. Among his last words he uttered to me were an appeal to finish the translation for him. I went to Dr. Armitage to plead my case." He hesitated over whether or not to tell Peter what happened. Would he think he was making it up? But compared to what had gone on the past couple of days, it seemed relatively tame. "You'll never believe what she had me do."

"Try me," Peter said, not acting in the least surprised.

"She led me into her office and had me sit at an ornately-carved round table. That office . . . I assume you've seen it? It looks like something out of the Renaissance with ancient instruments, books, globes and tapestries. The chamber is so dim that it's difficult to see anything clearly."

Peter nodded. "It reminds me of an illustration for the laboratory of a medieval alchemist."

"Exactly, and she's the sorceress. Dr. Armitage filled a Chinese porcelain basin in the center of the table with a toffee-colored liquid from a long beaker which she'd heated on a burner. Then she had me hold my head over the basin and breathe in the steam. It made me so disoriented that I could only stand it for a few minutes before I had to sit back. Then she pressed her fingers on my forehead and held them there for one, maybe two minutes before releasing them." He glanced over at Peter and winced. "Afterward she told me not to bother her for four years."

Peter chuckled. "Lavinia pulled that stunt on me, too."

"She did? And you passed?"

"Only after failing my two previous attempts. How old were you when you attempted it?"

"That was a year ago when I was twenty-one."

"Well, let's give it another try. What's the worst that can happen? She makes you breathe in some more fumes?"

"Do you think on a Sunday morning she'll even be here? I'd planned to do research in the rare book room while you're in the vault."

"She'll be here," Peter said confidently. "She's always here. I suspect she lives here"—he darted a mischievous glance at Neal—"when she's not flying around on her broomstick."

Neal chuckled in spite of himself.

"That's better. You should smile more often. Even fake smiles are better than none at all. You smile enough, you'll wind up conning yourself it's real, and soon it will no longer be a con." Clapping him on the shoulder, Peter said, "Come on, we'll face her together."

What was Peter? A one-man booster club? Neal had never been around someone like him—so positive, so self-assured. Correction—Mozzie was self-assured too. Even if his theories didn't make any sense at all. He'd actually once asked Neal in all seriousness about the cosmic ramifications if the moon were made of green cheese. Neal had tried to treat it with the gravity which he expected but wound up snorting in his face. Mozzie wasn't worried that he was going insane. He relished his place as university eccentric. Was it time for Neal to stop fighting and join him in the loony bin?

Dr. Armitage's office was at the back of the building, accessed by a steep, spiral staircase. From the outside of the library you could see the round turret where her office was, just underneath the witch's cap on the northwest corner.

Peter led the way up the narrow stairs. When they arrived at the top, he gave a solid rap to the carved oak door.

At first there was only silence but after about five minutes, the door slowly creaked open. Dr. Armitage stood in front of them, peering at them from over her glasses as if they were a previously unrecorded species of insect. Her long hair was piled up high on her head like the turret her office was in. She was a tall African-American and wore sturdy laced bootlets with high heels, making her almost as tall as Peter. "Why are you disturbing my studies?" she demanded impatiently. "Peter, you know better."

"Now, Lavinia, you know you're thrilled to see me. I always bring you such interesting discoveries."

She sniffed, looking somewhat mollified. Turning her steely glance to Neal she froze him in place with one glare. "Didn't I tell you not to bother me for another three years?"

"He's seen things, Lavinia," Peter said quietly.

She gave Neal a sharp look, and then stepped away from the entrance. "Well, why are you just standing there? Come in."

Her office looked more cluttered than ever, with the pale light struggling in through the colored leaded glass panels of the window doing little to dispel the overall gloom. The oak table Neal remembered from his previous visit was still in the center of a worn oriental carpet. Three high-backed oak chairs with velvet cushions were grouped around the table. Last time there'd only been two chairs. It was almost as if she'd been expecting them. The cushions must have once been a rich emerald-green but were now faded to a dingy slate-gray, with the original luxurious color only visible around the cording. The air was pungent with a heavy musk fragrance, but Neal couldn't see any evidence of incense or candles.

Neal looked up. The exposed beam ceiling rose high into the witch's cap roof. Peeking out from a behind a beam were two golden eyes. Thaddeus had mentioned once she kept pets. Was that one of them?

Neal longed to peruse her books. Many of them appeared more ancient than those in the rare book room. Some of the volumes were in Greek; others in Latin or Arabic. A manuscript was lying on her desk—an Arabic script he didn't recognize. Neal approached her desk to take a closer look but she brusquely ordered him away.

Lavinia instructed them to take their seats at the table. It was difficult to call her by her first name but that's how Peter addressed her and he should as well. After all, he was no longer a student. Besides, addressing her as _Lavinia_ made her seem not quite so intimidating. Neal was reluctant to sit down after his previous experience but she was in no mood for compromise. Glimpses of elaborate arabesque carvings could be seen around the edges of the threadbare tapestry covering the table.

"You need tea," Lavinia said abruptly. She had a teapot on a hot plate on a side table and poured them out steaming mugs of the liquid. Neal breathed in the fragrance. It was redolent of sandalwood and reminded him of a spice shop he'd visited in Oxford. "Now tell me about these _things_ you've seen."

As Neal sipped the tea, the words tumbled out. To his astonishment he found himself going into far more detail about the dreams than he had with Peter. He even described the staircase he'd found beside the altar at Abydos. His descent to the pit, the glimpses he'd had of the underworld below, the shapes, the haunted piping, the gibbers, the smells too vile to . . . Lavinia cut him off as he felt his breath began to quicken and the urgency to flee beyond his strength to fight.

He heard Peter choke back an exclamation when Neal described the staircase. Neal was by this point beyond caring what he must think of his nightmares.

Lavinia poured some emerald-green liquid from an opaque bottle into a glass and commanded him to drink before proceeding. Although the liquid looked toxic, it was oddly refreshing and he felt calmer afterwards.

When Neal described the hold the soapstone had on him, Peter elaborated on how he'd discovered it at Abydos and gave a detailed account of the reaction Neal experienced when he first saw it. Lavinia sat with an impassive expression on her face as they related the incredible events. She didn't appear to be the least bit surprised. It made Neal wonder what it would take to astonish her.

Surely his vision of Seth being in trouble, the attack at the bookstore, and the creature would provoke a reaction, but instead she could have been a stone statue. Was it her very aloofness that caused him to be so garrulous? He hadn't intended to be and was dismayed that he went into such vivid detail about the beast. But it was like he was on a treadmill and he couldn't stop until she'd wrung every detail out of him.

At the end she stared at him with those disconcertingly large eyes for a long moment then stood up. She walked over to a side cabinet and pulled out the Chinese porcelain bowl Neal remembered from his previous visit. Placing it on the table, she muttered, "Wait here," and departed to an inner room.

"That went well," Peter commented.

"Really?" That was hardly the way he would have described it.

"Relax. Lavinia likes you."

"Why do you say that?"

"You're still in one piece."

Neal broke into a sheepish grin. "When you put it that way . . ."

Peter chuckled. "Just remember to breathe and you'll be fine."

Lavinia returned with a glass beaker, but this time the steaming liquid was chestnut-brown in color and slightly viscous. She poured some into the bowl and commanded him to breathe deeply.

Neal leaned over the basin. It smelled of the earth, rich and organic. He expected to see mushrooms floating on the surface and looked into the liquid for them, but couldn't find any. As he stared into the basin, the liquid grew increasingly dark till it was almost black. Slowly glowing shadows started to emerge, shimmering shapes transforming before his eyes. At first tiny, they grew larger and larger . . .

"That's enough," Lavinia commanded. She yanked the bowl away. Neal was startled to discover his face was within an inch of touching the surface. The room was spinning slowly. He sat back in his chair, breathing heavily. Peter was looking at him with concern.

Neal lifted a hand and nodded, then closed his eyes to stop the spinning.

He felt fingers on his forehead. Must be Lavinia's. They pressed into his temples and stayed there. Her fingers were warm. He relaxed into them … When the pressure lifted, it was as if he were awakening from a deep sleep.

Lavinia was regarding him thoughtfully when he opened his eyes. Finally she nodded and said, "You'll do. Perhaps there's something in the vault that will answer your questions. I'll add your name to the security list."

She removed the basin and placed it on a shelf. Going over to the bookcase, she retrieved a small ornate ebony chest and set it on the table. Sitting back down, she opened the box and pulled out a small brass key. "This is for you. Thaddeus had left it with me to give to you when the time was right. I believe that time is now upon us. You'll find a cabinet inscribed with his family name in the vault. This key is now yours to unlock the mysteries which it contains."

A flood of emotions surged through Neal at her words—sorrow for Thaddeus that he couldn't work with him on it, appreciation that she was granting him access, and an overwhelming curiosity to see what was in the cabinet.

Lavinia turned to face Peter. "A word before you leave. Follow me." With an imperious gesture she directed him to a side room and closed the door behind them.

Neal gazed at the door in perplexity. He could hear the low murmur of voices inside but nothing intelligible. He glanced around the chamber. From high in the rafters, bright eyes peered down at him. He twisted his head and stared up at them to see if they moved. At first he'd thought there was only one animal, but now there appeared to at least three. They looked too large to be bats. Squirrels? Owls? Maybe monkeys? If he strained to hear, he thought he detected a soft chittering. They appeared to be as fascinated with him as he was with them.

Peter and Lavinia were gone about five minutes. When they reemerged, Lavinia wasted no time on small talk, directing them to leave so she could get back to her work. She escorted them to the door, but stopped Neal with a warning hand on his arm. "Remember, you're a novice in the vault. You must build up a tolerance. Limit your exposure at first."

"How long is too long?" Neal asked, but she'd already slammed the door. He turned to Peter for help. "What does she mean by that?"

"That was Lavinia being Lavinia. She gives a new definition to the meaning of the word _cryptic_. Two hours sounds like a reasonable length of time to me. We're scheduled to meet Cyrus at three o'clock, which will be a good break point." Peter started back down the narrow spiral staircase.

Neal glanced at his watch. They'd spent over two hours with her. He would have estimated only a half-hour. "What did you two talk about? Anything you can share?"

"Sorry, but she advised against it, and frankly it would only raise more questions than answers."

Neal didn't answer but his disappointment must have been apparent as Peter added, "You did well. She said you're the youngest to have ever passed her test. That's quite an achievement. Did you have any visions when you stared into the liquid?"

"Vague shapes are all I remember. I believe they were starting to coalesce but then I blacked out, or at least that's what it felt like. Was I out for long?"

Peter shook his head. "It didn't appear to me that you lost consciousness at all. Your head was slowly sinking toward the bowl. Just when it looked like you were going to break the surface of the liquid, she pulled you out of it."

"You've been through it. Did you have any visions?"

"Sounds similar to what you experienced. Nothing definitive. I wondered if I weren't tripping. The smell of cardamom was very strong."

"It smelled like mushrooms to me."

"I'm not surprised the fragrance was different. As I recall the liquid was much more the color of mahogany than what she poured for you." He paused. "When you described your dreams, you included far more details than what you told me."

"Do you blame me? The first part was crazy enough. If I'd told you about the staircase, you would have hauled me off to a padded cell."

"No, I wouldn't have," Neal had spoken half in jest, but Peter was surprisingly serious. He stopped to turn back to face Neal. "That staircase . . . you've been living with that image in your mind. That demonstrates to me, you're tougher than you look. One thing I can tell you from what Lavinia said. She told me not to dismiss your dreams."

"What do you mean? She believes they're of actual events?"

"I don't know what she meant either. She offered no further explanation." He continued down the staircase.

Neal shook his head in frustration. "I wish she weren't so cryptic. I probably have better luck asking her pets in the rafters."

Peter stopped so abruptly on the stairs that Neal almost tripped on him. "What are you talking about?"

"Didn't you see their eyes? Those golden orbs? I wondered if they were owls or perhaps monkeys. All I saw were the eyes."

"I didn't see anything," Peter said, giving him a strange look.

"Oh great, another vision." Neal gave a groan of frustration.

"Well, if you were having a vision, according to Lavinia, it may be real although possibly only real in Lavinia-land."

Neal chuckled. "Do you know how many people have access to the vault?"

"Less than ten, I'm sure. It's a privilege that Lavinia rarely grants."

What was the meaning of the ritual? The first time Lavinia had subjected Neal to breathing the steam from the liquid, he'd thought she'd invented a novel way of denying access to the vault. But if that were true, why hadn't she simply turned him down? Peter seemed to accept her idiosyncrasies. It made Neal all the more curious to know what Lavinia had told him behind the closed door.

The library vault was located down a long corridor off the main reading room. The entrance was protected by massive oak doors reinforced with iron. A guard sat at a small table in front of the doors and maintained a log of all visitors. He greeted Peter with a smile, but scanned Neal suspiciously when Neal presented his ID.

"Dr. Armitage just approved him," Peter said smoothly.

He nodded but still looked doubtful. "I got her call but I wasn't expecting someone so young. He's not your TA, is he?"

"No, he's on the linguistics faculty." Peter added quietly, "Shrewsbury was his advisor."

The guard's attitude changed dramatically, his frown dissolving into a smile. "My apologies. I didn't realize. You're welcome to use the vault at any time." He took out a large brass key of intricate construction, inserted it into the lock, and pushed the doors open.

With a flick of the light switch, the leather and gold bindings of thousands of books shone within the small chamber.

So many books. Books he'd heard whispers about, books he'd dreamed about . . . Neal stood at the threshold simply taking in the sight of all the treasures spread out around him. The murder, his anxiety over what was causing his visions, all was put aside for the moment.

The bookcases extended some twenty feet to the ceiling. A rolling ladder was provided to access the highest shelves. The lower sections of several of the units consisted of solid wood cabinets. In the center of the vault was a carved oak table with a couple of chairs.

Peter must have sensed his exhilaration. "You remind me of what I felt like the first time I gained admittance. I felt like I'd discovered the unknown resting place of a lost pharaoh."

Neal admitted the truth to his words with a small, embarrassed laugh. "I'll try not to make a total idiot out of myself."

Peter shook his head. "Don't worry about it. You can't be a bigger one than I am around these marvels." Peter secured the entrance with a wrought iron gate which could be opened from the interior, noting that the gate was mandatory for visits to the vault.

 "Where are you starting?" Neal asked.

"The _Necronomicon_."

At his words, Neal's heart quickened. That fabled tome by the half-crazed Arab scholar was the inspiration of so many evil legends that if his advisor hadn't told him about it, he might have wondered if it could truly exist. According to the ancient reports, Abdul Alhazred had written the book in the 700s. Most scholars relied on scattered fragmentary Latin translations which were based on an earlier lost translation in Greek. The book in the Miskatonic library vault was the original. Very few knew of its existence.

Thaddeus told him that Alhazred had worshiped ancient gods and was persecuted for blasphemy. Although Neal wasn't allowed to view the book, Thaddeus had discussed much of its content with him. The tales were ambiguous and sinister, with many of them existing only in that book.

Thaddeus was preparing a translation not only of the main text but also of the appendices—over fifty pages of text written in an obscure variant of Classical Arabic unique to the _Necronomicon_. Because of the difficulty of the language, the appendices had never been translated. The Arabic in the main body of the text presented fewer challenges, but even it contained additional letters. Thaddeus believed that none of the other translations had been accurate. He hoped Neal could translate the appendices, but when Lavinia refused access, that project had been put on hold.

"Lavinia and I had once scanned the _Necronomicon_ together," Peter said. "I'd shown her a drawing in a Moroccan tomb I'd discovered. She thought it bore a resemblance to one of the drawings in the _Necronomicon_ but we weren't able to find it. During my search, I think I may have seen something resembling your sketch. Did you bring it?"

Neal placed his briefcase on the table and opened it to retrieve the sheet of paper. He was torn between wanting to stay with Peter to explore the _Necronomicon_ and checking out what was in the Shrewsbury cabinet.

"I'll call you over as soon as I find something," Peter said, solving his dilemma.

Neal nodded gratefully and moved over to the bookcases to survey the cabinets. They all had brass plates containing identification information. Most of the IDs were meaningless numbers, but the middle cabinet on the south wall was labeled with a single word: _Shrewsbury_. Neal pulled out his key and inserted it into the lock. The cabinet door swung open to reveal three deep shelves inside filled with handwritten manuscripts bound with faded ribbons, journals, ledger books, and boxes of varying sizes. One large steel box filled the entire middle shelf. It was labeled with the name of Thaddeus's father, Laban Shrewsbury.

Neal pulled out Laban's box, reasoning it must have the oldest documents, and placed it on the table opposite Peter. When he opened the hinged lid, he found the box stuffed with papers, archival folders, and several journals.

One of the folders was much thicker than the others and Neal decided to investigate it first. The folder appeared to be filled with something solid but was surprisingly light. When he opened the flaps, he gasped with amazement at the contents. The paper, if you could call it paper, was unlike any he'd ever seen before. It was about two inches thick and transparent with a crystalline clarity. Although the material appeared as hard as quartz, the weight was less than an ordinary sheet of paper.

At Neal's gasp, Peter got up and walked around the table to stand beside him. Together they examined the mysterious manuscript. Roughly ten by six inches, the crystal had seven lines of bronze-colored text in an unknown script which appeared to float within the medium. The script itself was three-dimensional. Each glyph was no thicker than a human hair and yet somehow had been shaped into an arabesque of staggering complexity. What calligraphic tool could have been used to write characters like that? 

"A crystal manuscript . . . " Peter's eyes widened as he stared at it. "I've never seen anything like it. Where did you find it?"

"It was in a folder by itself. The label on the folder is written in an unknown script which bears some of the characteristics of the script within the crystal." Neal held up the crystal to view the script from the side and from underneath.

"No mention of where it came from?"

"Not on the folder."

Peter shook his head in wonderment. "I can't even guess what civilization could have produced this. Laban must have written it up. Try his journals."

Neal settled in to read while Peter returned to the _Necronomicon_. Laban Shrewsbury had been the preeminent physical anthropologist of his day and conducted expeditions throughout the world. In what far-flung corner of the globe had he found the crystal manuscript?

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

"Found it!"

At Peter's triumphant words, Neal sprinted around the table to stand beside him. "What?"

"Your creature, monster, beast, whatever it was." Peter pointed to a drawing in the _Necronomicon_. He placed Neal's sketch beside it, and the two were terrifyingly similar. The creature looked vaguely human but was missing important body parts like a nose and a forehead. It stood on its hind limbs which ended in hooves. Its arms were the same length as its legs but ended in claws resembling bird talons. The creature's mouth gaped wide, its jaw filled with razor-sharp teeth like a shark. The emaciated body was hairless. A man had been drawn next to it to give a sense of scale, with the creature appearing about one-and-a-half times as tall.

To Neal the creature resembled what a prisoner would look like who'd been left for eons to starve in a cell. As it gradually evolved, it was consumed by hunger and hatred into its present horrific shape. Shaking his head to dispel the vision, he read the text accompanying it. "Alhazred calls it —and I'm using his word here—a _ghast_. Ghasts live in the underworld. They're carnivorous. Live in darkness, hunting in packs. Their senses are unusually acute, especially the sense of smell." Neal looked up at Peter. "Why was I seeing a ghast when the guy attacked me? This makes no sense at all."

Peter stroked his chin. "And how does Alhazred know of them? Supposedly he worshiped strange gods. Obscure cults were prevalent at the time." He turned to Neal. "You're sure Thaddeus never mentioned it to you?"

"I would have remembered, and this is my first time to look at the _Necronomicon_. What's going on? I've now seen a ghast twice. A being that has only been documented by a madman over a thousand years ago?"

Peter shook his head slowly. "I wish I knew. That you would hallucinate something so remarkably similar to that illustration doesn't seem plausible. Were you having a vision when you saw the ghast? But if so, a vision of what?"

 

* * *

**_Notes_ ** _: Next week nightmares become reality for Neal in Chapter 5: The Church on Prospect Hill._

_Diana pays tribute to several famous characters of the Cthulhu Mythos in this chapter. In a nod to H.P. Lovecraft, she gave her librarian the same last name as Dr. Henry Armitage, the head librarian in "The Dunwich Horror." In canon, Henry Armitage was born in 1855. There are varying accounts of his death with most saying it occurred sometime between 1925 and 1935. Henry Armitage was the man responsible for accumulating the library's vast resources of occult literature._

_Diana was dismayed by the lack of strong female characters in Lovecraft's stories and Lavinia Armitage is one of the ways she's compensating. In naming her character, Diana picked the first name of one of the very few females in Lovecraft's works, Lavinia Whateley. When Diana named her character Lavinia, she chose to ignore Lavinia Whateley's rather deplorable attributes. Lavinia Whateley is described as an albino of slatternly habits with only a rudimentary education. Dr. Lavinia Armitage has an intellectual capacity greater or equal to anyone on campus. She's a formidable scholar with the personality and looks of Diana's favorite grandmother._

_Laban Shrewsbury was created by August Derleth. His adventures are chronicled in The Trail of Cthulhu series. Diana retained many of his characteristics. In canon Laban was an anthropologist and professor of philosophy at Miskatonic University. He was born in 1864 and died in the 1930s. Diana invented his son Thaddeus, who served as Neal's advisor until his mysterious illness. She named Thaddeus after Thaddeus Gardner, a character in "The Colour Out of Space," one of Lovecraft's most popular works._

_If you're familiar with White Collar, you know that Diana has tweaked the personalities of Neal and Peter to satisfy the goal of Arkham Files. This week I wrote about the dynamic between Neal and Peter for our blog._

_Music plays an important part in the Caffrey Conversation AU. Penna Nomen and I often reference songs and include them on our Pinterest boards. Music can define a mood or express a character's innermost thoughts. Penna's post this week for our blog is about the various uses we've made of music for the AU._

_Thanks as always to the awesome Penna for her help with this chapter and to you for reading and your comments!_

**_Blog_** _: Penna Nomen & Silbrith Conversation: [www.pennasilbrithconversation.blogspot.com](http://www.pennasilbrithconversation.blogspot.com)_  
  
**_Chapter Visuals and Music_** _: Arkham Files board at the Caffrey Conversation Pinterest website:[www.pinterest.com/caffreycon](http://www.pinterest.com/caffreycon)_


	5. The Church on Prospect Hill

**Miskatonic University Library. September 14, 1975. Sunday afternoon.**

How much time had Neal spent in the vault? Whatever it was, it wasn't long enough. He'd only sorted through a tiny fraction of the material in the Shrewsbury cabinet when Peter began grumbling about the need to leave. Neal ignored him. He'd just discovered a folder in yet another language. A completely different system of writing. This brought the total up to ten unknown languages.

"Neal, now!"

"You go on," he muttered. "I'll join you later."

"Wrong answer. Cyrus is expecting us. Don't you want to hear about the soapstone?"

"Yeah, but—hey, what are you doing?" Peter seized the paper he was reading and returned it to the folder.

"Later. My hunger bell went off and you don't want to mess with the Gilman hunger bell. Cyrus will wonder what happened to us. Besides, you remember what Lavinia said. You're to avoid prolonged exposure. We've been here over three hours."

"Has it been that long?" It seemed like only a few minutes. Neal didn't have a hunger bell like Peter's, or if he did, it was being suppressed by his desire to research the Shrewsbury papers. Since no materials could leave the vault, he'd now have to wait till Monday evening at the earliest, but Peter was implacable.

On the walk over to the faculty club Peter asked him if he'd found any reference to the mysterious crystal manuscript.

"I found a comment about archiving a manuscript from a library. The notes were written in haste in a scrawl unlike his normal writing. He didn't explain which library or even which manuscript. He started with the phrase: 'My dreams are haunted by Celaeno.' Celaeno is a Greek word but I'm at a loss to explain what Laban meant."

"Celaeno . . ." Peter paused to consider. "That word can refer to several figures in Greek mythology. Celaeno was one of the Harpies as well as one of the Pleiades. If I remember correctly, the Greeks also refer to an Amazon with that name who was killed by Heracles."

"Perhaps Shrewsbury was investigating a Greek ruin? Do you know of any ancient Greek villages which were named after her?"

"Not offhand," Peter admitted. "But Shrewsbury was a genius in discovering unreported ruins. He may have found something and didn't have time to document it before he died. He didn't elaborate further?"

"No," Neal said regretfully, "and to complicate matters, after mentioning the manuscript, he switched to a language I'd never seen before." He looked over at Peter and admitted ruefully, "I could spend a lifetime trying to decipher the languages contained in that cabinet."

The university faculty club was on the second floor of the student center. Compared with the din on the ground floor, it made a tranquil retreat. The club was as old-fashioned as many of the professors at Miskatonic with leather Chesterfield sofas and armchairs that invited you to linger and read. Faded oriental rugs added warmth to the room which had large mullioned windows overlooking the lake on the campus. There was always a plentiful supply of coffee as well as other beverages, and members were allowed to bring in food from the cafeteria on the ground floor. Liquor lockers were also available for their use.

Peter and he stopped to pick up sandwiches then headed upstairs. Cyrus was waiting for them in one of the conversation groups next to a large bay window. Someone was sitting next to him in a wing chair. All Neal could see was an arm in a tweed jacket holding a glass of wine. He grinned when he saw a familiar bald head peek around the side of the chair. "Mozzie! I'm not surprised."

"He spent all morning with me," Cyrus said. "I could hardly keep him away now. Peter, have you met Dante Atwood? He's the Karl Jansky Professor of Astrophysics."

Peter shook Mozzie's hand. "We've met briefly, a pleasure."

"You may call me Mozzie," he said regally. "My opinion of you has risen markedly since I learned of the assistance you provided my young friend." Peter appeared amused as Mozzie gestured for them to take seats as if he were the host.

Cyrus shoved aside the papers on the cocktail table to make room for their sandwiches and drinks. "Mozzie came to see me early this morning. He told me of the conversation he had with Neal last night and insisted on seeing the results of my tests."

"As you know spectroscopy is essential in astrophysics," Mozzie added. "Cyrus and I have worked closely on many projects before—groundbreaking experiments and discoveries which have made us both famous—but none, and I repeat, none as exciting as this one." Neal took advantage of Mozzie's pause to assess Peter's reaction. Mozzie's use of hyperbole took getting used to. "Gentlemen, I have no doubt that the substance contained within this soapstone is an element previously unknown to man. I further postulate an extraterrestrial origin to it. As you know, it's theorized that our organic elements arrived on comets. I feel quite comfortable in predicting this element also arrived on an asteroid or comet. What we don't know yet is if the soapstone itself originated on earth."

"We're sending our research to the U.S. Committee for the International Union of Pure and Applied Chemistry," Cyrus said. "If the committee agrees with our determination, it will send the sample to the international body for a final decision." When Cyrus mentioned it the previous day, Neal had remained skeptical. It seemed too incredible to be given credence, but now he was swept away by the implications. "In our application we need to give the element a provisional name. Peter, you were the one who discovered the soapstone. Would you like to have the honor?"

"But I never would have suspected the element's existence, if it hadn't been for Neal. He should be the one to name it."

Neal tried to convince Peter to reconsider, but he refused. Neal was quickly learning that Peter wasn't easily swayed to change his mind, whether it was for dinner or a life-altering decision.

"Take your time," Cyrus urged. "An element can be named after a person or a location. Sometimes it's based on a property the element exhibits. For instance you could call it abydonium since Peter found it at Abydos."

Neal gazed out the bay window, weighing options. The sun, partially obscured by clouds shone low in the sky. The soapstone had been found at Abydos, but was that where it had been created? As for its properties, what was true for Neal wasn't apparently valid for anyone else. He turned to face the others. "We suspect this element is somehow connected to the visions I've been experiencing, but we don't know of anyone else who's been similarly affected. That variability gives it a certain kinship to Algol, the Demon Star, winking at us. Peter and I saw Algol in the sky the night of the murder. How about algolnium? You mentioned it may be extraterrestrial in origin."

Mozzie nodded. "Algolnium, very apt. Will it, like its namesake, also be considered demonic? Time will tell. Cyrus, make a note of it." He looked over at Neal's glass. "What are you drinking?"

"Cider."

Mozzie winced, shaking his head in disapproval. "Have I taught you nothing? And you, suit, what about you?"

"Suit? I don't—"

Neal leaned over to mutter. "Just go with the flow. Mozzie works better this way. I'll explain later."

Requesting Neal fetch wine glasses from the service area, Mozzie walked over to his locker and came back with a bottle of St. Emilion. When everyone had a glass, he raised his in a toast. "It's not every day a new element is named. Gentlemen, to algolnium!"

Was algolnium the cause of his visions? He'd begun dreaming of Abydos around the time Peter returned from there with the artifact. Neal had never experienced psychic visions of crimes taking place or seen creatures like that ghast until being exposed in Peter's office. There had to be a connection. Giving the element a name brought Neal a certain sense of control over what up to now had seemed inexplicable.

While he and Peter ate their sandwiches, Cyrus explained the various criteria that needed to be established before formal acceptance could be given. The process was a lengthy one, requiring a minimum of several months.

"Could you omit any mention of the effect it has on me?" Neal asked.

Cyrus considered a moment. "That shouldn't present a problem, and I can see where including a description would only serve to add an unnecessary complication at this point."

"A wise suggestion," Mozzie added. "Supply the minimum of information necessary for them to validate the finding. We don't want to be invaded by a pack of government overlords." He turned to Neal. "Tell me about your research in the vault. Did you gain access? Did you discover any references to those creatures you saw?"

Cyrus gazed at him, startled. "Creatures? What creatures?" Neal and Peter reviewed what had occurred and described the ghast described in the _Necronomicon_.

"I must look at that book the next time I'm in the vault," Mozzie said, slapping himself on the forehead. "That was a lamentable oversight on my part. Simply because I don't speak Arabic is no excuse."

"I'm not familiar with the _Necronomicon_ ," Cyrus said.

"It was written by Abdul Alhazred in the mid-eighth century," Peter said. "Alhazred belonged to a cult who worshipped strange beings called Yog-Sothoth and Cthulhu."

"Why haven't I heard of them?" Mozzie demanded.

Peter shrugged. "That's not surprising. The only references to Yog-Sothoth and Cthulhu I've ever found in all my research into ancient civilizations are in the _Necronomicon_. According to Alhazred they were spawned by a mysterious entity called Azathoth."

"Azathoth was at the top of the pantheon," Neal added. "He was the progenitor of all the others. Alhazred said he lived in the center of chaos and was too horrific to be described."

Cyrus drained the last of his wine. "And you've been seeing creatures described in an eighth century book. Amazing. Any ideas on the significance?"

"At first I convinced myself I was hallucinating. No other explanation seemed possible. Now I don't know what to think." Neal drew a breath. He needed to keep a firm grasp on reality. "Most likely it's just a bizarre coincidence that a creature so similar could be in the _Necronomicon_. I like to think I'm a man of reasonable intellect, not given to hysteria or delusions. This has been a humbling experience."

Mozzie patted him on the arm. "You still are. You simply need to open up your mind to other possibilities. You haven't mentioned my theories. I realize that was because you feared you might not do justice to them." He turned to Cyrus. "One likely hypothesis is that the ghasts are extraterrestrial beings who are capable of transforming their appearance."

Cyrus nodded thoughtfully while Peter placed a hand to his mouth to muffle his snort.

Mozzie continued unabated. "Although that theory has several intriguing corollaries, I'm most drawn to the one involving wormholes which are used by the creatures to travel from parallel universes into our own. I've been researching for several years the theory that there are many more dimensions than the four that are currently accepted—the three spatial dimensions and time. Consider for the moment that our universe may reside within a higher-dimensional space containing, in layman's terms, several different worlds. What if it were possible by means of a wormhole, black hole, or some other mechanism for another universe to leak into ours? That could be the key to understanding several unexplained phenomena that have occurred throughout man's history and to which I now add the ghast sightings."

"I detect your skepticism, Peter," Cyrus said, "but in quantum mechanics we've learned to accept the fuzziness of wave functions and how subatomic particles can occupy multiple positions. Neal may have the ability to see similar phenomena on the macro atomic level."

Mozzie beamed. "Precisely. And not only see but travel between the dimensions."

Were Mozzie and Cyrus right? Was he traveling between different worlds and dimensions? Suddenly the thought that he was merely psychic or hallucinating seemed much more palatable.

Peter rubbed the back of his neck. "Interesting theories, I grant you, but let's return to the here and now for the moment. Cyrus, when will you submit your paperwork to the committee?"

"I hope to have it completed by Tuesday. Given the extraordinary nature of the find, they're going to want to fast track it. A preliminary finding could be released within a month or two. Was there anything about the soapstone in the vault?"

"We haven't found anything yet," Neal said. "I worked on materials belonging to Laban Shrewsbury." He went on to describe the contents of the Shrewsbury cabinet. At his description of the crystal manuscript, both Cyrus and Mozzie plied him with questions, asking for every detail till his head ached from repeating everything multiple times.

Breaking in, Peter asked, "Does the name Celaeno mean anything to you?" and he spelled it out for them.

Mozzie thought for a moment. "There's a star called Celaeno. It's in the Pleiades star cluster. That seems an obscure reference. I've read accounts of Laban's expeditions, but don't remember any mention of an interest in astronomy." Mozzie pointed a finger at Neal. "You must accompany me to the vault. It's vital that I see the crystal for myself."

Peter held up a hand. "He's had enough for one day. Too much time in the vault can do a number to your health. Lavinia warned of the dangers of excessive exposure."

"Why is that?" Neal asked.

"I suspect the ventilation system in the vault isn't very good, and it's a liability concern. The vault contains many unusual materials among those ancient books. Some of them may release potentially hazardous chemicals to the air."

Cyrus nodded. "You remember the case of Professor Tutledge? Back in the early 1960s he was researching medieval medicinal plants for a book he was writing. Lavinia had only been head librarian for a year or two. Supposedly Tutledge used to work all day in the vault and sometimes well in the night. This was before she imposed any time restrictions."

"What happened to him?" Neal asked.

"He was discovered late one evening unconscious on the vault floor. Eventually he revived, but mentally he was never the same. Became quite unhinged, poor chap. Could no longer teach. Wound up spending the rest of his life in a mental institution. I'd been teaching for only a few years then. We performed tests on the air and didn't find anything harmful. A medieval herbal he was studying contained trace amounts of mandrake. In sufficiently large doses, mandrake could cause Tutledge's symptoms and some concluded it was responsible."

"Vault madness I've heard it called," Mozzie added. "Personally I don't ascribe to the notion, but many do. The provost has given Lavinia full authority to impose any regulations she deems necessary and Lavinia is one person I never cross."

**University Medical Center. September 15, 1975. Monday morning.**

On Monday morning when Neal reported to the Medical Center, Peter had already arrived with the artifact. Neal brought along his warring emotions—a desire to know the truth dueling with apprehension over what he might learn. As he filled out the initial forms, he reminded himself not to build up expectations for either one. At best the tests would be inconclusive. Most of the results probably wouldn't be available for weeks.

True to her word, Elizabeth supervised the proceedings personally. The soapstone was concealed under a protective cover so that its appearance wasn't visible to other medical personnel. The tests ranged from simple reflex and cognitive evaluations to a CT scan, MRI, and other imaging evaluations. At eleven o'clock she called a halt, asking Neal to join her in her office when he'd dressed.

Neal took his time changing back into his suit. Up to today he'd only been exposed for a brief minute or two to the soapstone. Now he estimated he'd spent well over an hour in its presence. Although he could never see it, he could sense it. The disorientation, the sweats—they all blared out their warnings. After each session Elizabeth had given him time to recover, but he still felt drained.

Neal rested on the bench in the changing cubicle before going out. Leaning his back to the wall, his eyes closed, he willed himself to empty his thoughts. After five minutes or it could have been an hour, he finally roused himself. He had classes to teach in the afternoon.

When he exited the cubicle, he found Elizabeth standing outside, looking concerned. "How are you feeling? Do you need to lie down for a while?"

He shook his head. "I want to hear the results."

She asked if he'd mind having Peter present. Neal was surprised to hear he was still there. During the last hour of testing, he couldn't tell if he'd already left. Neal readily agreed.

Elizabeth escorted him to her office where Peter was waiting. She had glasses of orange juice and a plate of sugar cookies available for them. Peter's glass was already half-empty. Handing Neal a glass, she said, "I put you both through the wringer. I don't want anyone collapsing around here." She was kind to include Peter, but Neal knew she meant him.

Neal took a seat in an upholstered chair beside her desk and composed himself for what was to come.

"The good news is that when you're not being exposed to the soapstone, all your readings fall within normal parameters. There appears to be no physiological consequence to the exposure. If I'd detected any lingering effect, I would have called off the tests, so you should feel pleased."

Neal nodded, waiting for the "but" that would inevitably follow.

"But during the exposure, the physiological effects are what we would expect from someone who displays your symptoms—increase in heart rate, sudden drop in blood pressure accompanied by disequilibrium. The cause for these symptoms appears to be tied to an area within your brain which displays anomalous neural wave patterns or oscillations as we call them. As the tests continued, the oscillations were a constant, but the other symptoms diminished in severity."

He nodded. "I no longer feel as dizzy when I'm exposed to the soapstone. By the end of the morning, I was tolerating it fairly well."

"That's also the way it appeared to me. Aside from a slight loss of color, you were not showing any external effects, but the abnormal neural activity persisted throughout the period of exposure. Did you experience any visions?"

Neal hesitated. Had he seen anything? He'd read that MRI chambers could be claustrophobic. That's probably what caused it. Besides, it wasn't a vision. How could he explain properly what he'd felt? A presence? Someone observing him? There was no denying he didn't feel alone in that chamber, but it must have been his mind playing tricks on him. For a second, Neal relived the icy breath, the sensation of a malevolence lying beside him.

"Neal? You needn't be concerned about anything you say. This is all going to be kept in strict confidence."

"After yesterday afternoon when we discussed the possibility of ghasts existing on earth, nothing you say now will be that much a shock," Peter added. "If we're ever going to get to the bottom of this, you need to be open about what you're seeing."

Neal looked at the two of them. In the short time he'd known them, he'd sensed a normalcy to their lives which seemed so different to his own. What right did he have to mess that up with the weirdness going on inside of him? "No visions." He gave them a reassuring smile. "No artifacts or jackal-headed monsters."

"I'm glad to hear it," she said. "Please let me know if you experience any." She picked up a sheet of paper on her desk. "I had a chance to go through the forms you'd filled out and noticed you'd forgotten to fill out one page—the section about your relatives."

He'd hoped he could avoid going into it, but recognized that was wishful thinking. Elizabeth was too thorough not to ask about it. "Sorry, but I can't fill out that part. It asks for medical information about members of my family. I don't know who my parents are, and as far as I know I don't have any siblings."

"You were adopted?" Peter asked.

"No such luck. Foster care," he said briefly, hoping that'd be an end to the questions.

"Abandoned as an infant? That has to be difficult," she said, looking at him with sympathy. "I'm surprised no one adopted you."

"It wasn't like that." He'd rather not discuss it, but Elizabeth could discover the truth from the police report and she'd probably find it relevant to whatever was going on with him. "When I was eight, I was found wandering the streets of Arkham."

"That was in 1962, correct?" Elizabeth asked.

"That's right," he said, watching her make a note of it. "I was wearing a name tag which gave my name and date of birth, but my earliest memory is of that street." He looked over at Peter. "And before you get started, I wasn't found on a farm. No rocket ship was involved."

"I'm reserving judgment," Peter said, his smile removing any sting. "Since you don't remember, you have no way of knowing whether a rocket ship or a crashing meteorite brought you on earth, do you?"

Neal made a huff of protest. "You realize you sound just like Mozzie."

"Ouch," he said with a laugh, raising his hands in a sign of surrender. "You'll hear no more about it from me."

"I assume they tried to trace your parents," Elizabeth said, cutting short any more jokes. "Did you have any belongings that could help?"

"Only a pendant on a chain, but it led nowhere. They never unearthed any reports of missing children that matched my description and eventually gave up. I became a ward of the system. Except for the amnesia, the doctors couldn't find anything wrong with me, and there were no bumps or bruises to indicate an injury."

"Did they test you when you went to school?"

He nodded. "Based on the results, I was placed in the fifth grade."

"That's young to be at that level," she commented. "Did you have any adjustment difficulties?"

"Not with the curriculum." His issues were all the homegrown variety. If he'd been held back to the correct level for his age, would he have been less a target at the foster home? Realistically they would have just found another excuse. "If you're done here, I'd like to get back to my office."

She lay down the pen she'd been using to take notes. "Would you mind returning for a few more tests?"

Neal's pitiful groan was what he hoped was a sufficient answer.

But she was resistant to his appeal. "We still haven't answered the question of why you're experiencing this effect. The preliminary tests show anomalous neural activity occurring within your brain. Don't you want to have a better understanding of its nature?"

Did he? So he had unusual brain waves. If she tested Mozzie, what would she find? "What are you proposing?"

"Nothing extreme. There are some new techniques in brain imaging I'd like to utilize. You really should have a spinal tap too. Any anomaly in your cerebrospinal fluid could cause a wide variety of dysfunctions."

Neal was silent as he contemplated what she was recommending. Was this the beginning of his new life as a lab rat?

"I can suit your schedule," she added persuasively. "The tests will remain completely confidential."

They eventually agreed to a compromise where Neal would submit to two additional mornings of reduced duration, then they'd reevaluate. He could play along for a couple more weeks, but then if nothing conclusive was found, Neal planned to call a halt to any further tests.

Afterward, Peter accompanied him to Wingate Hall. They both had classes to prepare for. During the walk, they discussed their next steps. Peter was sending out inquiries to archaeologists to discover if any similar artifacts had been discovered. Some he'd already contacted by phone, but for most he'd have to rely on the postal service. For his colleagues who were currently engaged in field work, response time could be a matter of weeks. Some of the more remote areas didn't even have mail service.

They'd barely scratched the surface. What was the connection of the crimes to the soapstones? Why was Neal seeing monsters previously only described by a half-crazed scholar from the eighth century? Could the soapstone script be translated? Neal felt certain that none of the answers to those questions would be found in Elizabeth's tests. Was he simply wasting time by submitting to them? If she found nothing but abnormal brain waves, would she be more likely to recommend he seek psychiatric help? Would she be right?

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Neal's afternoon lecture ran later than he'd anticipated. It was after five o'clock by the time he was able to stop by the police station to pick up the soapstone photos. Fortunately Diana hadn't left yet. When she saw him enter, she waved him over.

"Go ahead and take a seat," she said, gesturing to the chair next to her desk. "You should know—there's been another murder."

Neal was shocked at her words. He hadn't seen any reports in the newspaper. "When did it happen?"

"Sometime early on Sunday morning. The coroner believes the victim was probably killed between two and four a.m. White male in his fifties. He was discovered on the waterfront in a back alley."

"Was a soapstone found on the scene?"

She nodded. "It was lying under his body. The stone disappeared from the evidence vault five hours after we'd cataloged it. I've included the photo with the others." She reached into her top desk drawer and pulled out a large manila folder to hand to him. "We're counting on you being able to decipher those marks. These photographs are all we have to go on."

Faced with an additional serial death, Diana looked more troubled than Neal had ever seen her. Should he tell her about the ghast he'd chased on Saturday? That had been the same night as the murder and there might be a connection. But how could she possibly believe him? If he'd already told her what he witnessed the first night, she might be more receptive. But to what? Creatures from another world like Mozzie espoused? Diana had already said she didn't care for science fiction. She'd hardly go along with a theory as wild as that unless he could obtain clear evidence.

Neal resolved to hold off mentioning anything till he could obtain concrete documentation. What he needed was not a sketch but a photo.

When he returned home, he pulled out his camera from the drawer where it had lain unused for the past several months. It was a good model—a Nikon Mozzie had given him when Neal left for Oxford. It was still loaded with film but for daytime use. The ghast sightings had been at night, and Neal made a mental note to pick up faster film the next day. He placed it on the table next to the door as a reminder to carry it with him.

He changed into jeans, placed a table lamp on his dining table and started to work on the photos. The first step was to catalog all the various marks found on the stones. That at least was achievable. But deciphering their meaning without any other source material? The best clue he had was that Peter's had been found in Abydos. But that didn't indicate it had been carved there. Did the ancient craftsman speak Egyptian, Sumerian, or something else?

After working a couple of hours, Neal lay down his pen and stretched his back. He'd stared at those photos so much, he was seeing the glyphs in his mind even when he wasn't looking at them. He walked over to his window with his coffee mug. Storm clouds were gathering. An occasional flash of lightning lit up the sky to the west, casting the steeple of St. Jude's church in sharp relief. Neal had often been tempted to paint the view at sunset. Even more dramatic would be a storm scene at night.

Located at the top of Prospect Hill, the old church dominated the landscape. It was unfortunate the structure had been declared unsound. Neal had visited it years ago and remembered well the magnificent stained glass windows. The parish was mounting a fundraising drive to collect funds to restore it, but until then it was doomed to decay, a relic from a bygone age.

Neal watched the light show for a few more minutes. The low rumble of thunder was increasing in volume. Soon rain would start in his neighborhood. A bird flew toward the church. It looked much larger than the birds normally seen in Arkham. Perhaps a heron from the coast had lost its way in the storm.

A bolt of lightning illuminated both the steeple and the bird. Neal blinked and rubbed his eyes. The long neck was right for a heron, but no heron has a long whip for a tail . . . or enormous bat-like wings. It looked more like the pterodactyl on display at the Arkham Natural History Museum, but that couldn't be right. A dragon? A dragon in Arkham?

Neal dropped his mug and grabbed his camera. This was no ghast but whatever it was, he vowed to get a photo of it. Pausing just long enough to fetch his rain jacket from the closet, he dashed out of the house.

For a brief moment, the rational half of his brain recoiled at his actions. What possessed him to chase a dragon that couldn't exist? But now the creature was circling the steeple in lazy spirals with slow flaps of its powerful wings. He had to get closer to record what he was seeing. He wasn't crazy. This was real.

At that hour of the night and with the first rain drops already pelting down, no one was on the streets. Neal raced toward the hill. The wind had increased but it was at his back, driving him forward. He kept his eyes fixed on the dragon as he ran. It circled ever higher above the steeple. Would he lose it? Panicked, Neal whipped out his camera. He focused on it just in time to watch it disappear into the clouds.

So much for documenting his sighting. He consoled himself that the dragon would have been unrecognizable—a mere speck against the clouds. If there were a creature . . . If it weren't a hallucination. No way to know now. He might as well give up and go back. Unless . . . What goes up must come down eventually.

The creature had been attracted once to the steeple. Perhaps it would return. He was so close now, he might as well continue to the church. There was a porch where he could wait for the rain to stop. Perhaps he could sneak in and view the stained glass windows. They must be spectacular when lit by lightning. He'd come this far. He could afford to hang around a few minutes before heading back.

When Neal reached the church five minutes later, his resolve faltered for a moment. The dark edifice loomed forbiddingly, lit only by a few low-wattage security lights. Not exactly appropriate behavior for an assistant professor of linguistics to be prowling around a boarded-up church in the middle of the night. Could he justify it on the grounds of scientific curiosity?

In the meantime the rain made the decision for him as it was now a downpour. The porch overhang was useless against the raging squall, and he'd ruin his camera if he stayed outside. Neal tested the front door, expecting to find it locked, but it wasn't. He exhaled in relief. Churches were supposed to provide sanctuary. St. Jude's would be a shelter against the rainstorm.

Neal opened the door and froze. Someone was playing what sounded like a flute. It had an eerie tonal quality as if it were made from an unusual material like wood or bamboo. Had someone else sought refuge?

He listened for a moment at the doorway. The tune was nothing he recognized—a forlorn, haunting melody. Definitely not a modern scale, it sounded vaguely oriental.

When he walked inside, the music stopped. The cavernous interior of the church was dark with only the occasional flash of lightning providing illumination. The music must have been wind whistling through belfry. He kicked himself for getting carried away by his imagination.

The church was in worse shape than he'd expected. The wood pews were covered in a thick layer of dust. The shadowy columns rising high to the carved wood ceiling were draped with cobwebs. The windows, though, appeared undamaged. As Neal walked down the nave, lightning strikes transformed the windows into scintillating jewel tone images.

When he reached the front of the church, a particularly brilliant bolt of lightning illuminated the stone altar. A metal chest of curious construction, its lid open, was lying on the middle of the altar. Neal walked up the broad steps to examine it.

The dark metal of the chest glinted faintly even when not lit by lightning. Neal stood next to the altar and peered inside. Nestled on a cloth of black velvet was an immense ruby. It was about three inches high and had been cut into an irregular polyhedron. The intricate faceting made it appear to be lit by an internal fire. What else would cause it to shine with such brilliance in the obscurity of the church?

If it were genuine, its value would be enormous, but surely it was man-made. Neal removed the camera from around his neck and laid it beside the chest. He hadn't brought a flash attachment. If he tried to snap a photo, little would be revealed besides the red glow. Could he time it with a lightning strike?

Neal stared deep into the heart of the crystal. The luminosity appeared to increase the longer he gazed upon it. Gradually ghost-like figures emerged within the crystal and began to pulsate. They had to be an optical illusion, but the dance was mesmerizing. Were those flutes they carried? He leaned closer to study them.

 _Whoosh_!

Startled, he let out a cry. What happened? He was no longer looking at the crystal. He'd been sucked inside!

Instead of standing beside the altar, he was now on a rough stone landing some three feet square. When he looked up, he could discern through the lens of the ruby crystal the shape of the brass lantern hanging over the altar. On all four sides slime-covered stone walls nearly twenty feet high pressed near him. Stairs stretched down into blackness beneath him.

Neal rubbed his eyes. This was impossible. He must be dreaming. But how could that be? He'd been awake only a minute ago. Had something in the dust caused him to pass out? But if that were the case why was he having such a vivid vision?

Still, even the slimmest of hopes that he was merely dreaming provided a measure of comfort. For the moment he could play along. He'd soon wake up and laugh about it. Neal probed the stone walls. Could he scale them and escape through the roof? He'd rather attempt a climb than chance the stairs. They evoked too many horrific memories of the stairwell at Abydos. When he sniffed the air, he could even detect a whiff of that fetid stench.

The walls were made of uneven stone blocks and in theory could be scaled, but the thick slime made them treacherous. After several failed attempts, he finally succeeded in climbing six feet up. He was now drenched in sweat which was making it even harder to cling to the surface. Neal set his jaw and reached up with his hand to find the next cranny when he felt a sharp bite on his wrist.

With a yell, he shook his hand frantically. Was that a rat or something worse? He was holding on by one hand but that couldn't last. Neal swung his other arm to find something—anything—to grasp, but his nails encountered only muck that oozed between his fingers and coated his arms. Losing his grip, he tumbled down hard onto the slippery steps. He must have slid another ten feet before he was able to stop his descent.

A clap of thunder sounded overhead and the darkness was pierced by a bolt of lightning. Neal took advantage of the light to look down. What he saw filled him with a fear that robbed him of his breath and made his senses reel. The pit at Abydos. It lapped at his feet, threatening to consume him. Those same loathsome shapes that had haunted his dreams were now reaching up for him, their gibbers and howls piercing his skull. Neal clung to the step. At Abydos he'd been able to climb out before descending into the pit. Here, what escape was there? The steps themselves slanted downward into the abyss. The only direction was down.

With renewed strength born out of sheer terror, he attempted to reverse course, but the steps were drenched in viscous sludge making traction impossible. On his hands and knees, his fingers scraped and bleeding, he hoisted himself up two steps when something lashed onto his ankle and wrapped itself around his leg. He looked back to see a dark tentacle as thick as his forearm squeezing his leg. A second tentacle whipped around his other leg and wrenched him down the steps, closer and closer to the pit.

The atmosphere had become a miasma reeking of decay which seared his lungs. The gibbering below was deafening.

He was being dragged into the abyss, and he was powerless to prevent it.

**Peter's Townhouse. September 15, 1975. Monday night.**

"Can you get the phone?" El called out from the bathroom. "I'm still wet from the shower. It may be the hospital."

Peter glanced at his watch. Ten o'clock. Who else would be calling this late? He'd just started to undress but pulled his shirt back on and picked up the call on the bedside phone.

A deep, brusque voice was at the other end. "St. Jude. Prospect Hill. Go now!"

"Lavinia? What do you mean by St. Jude? Do you know what time it is?" She'd never called him at home before. It must be important but if she wanted him to go out in the middle of a thunderstorm, she'd have to explain it better.

"The church. He's not ready. Go or it will be too late!"

"Who's not ready? Neal?" Typical Lavinia. She ignored his questions and pursued her own indecipherable agenda. But there was no mistaking the tone of urgency in her voice.

"You were supposed to protect him!"

"Now wait a minute. You never told me to be his bodyguard. What's this all about?" But he wasn't destined to know. She'd already slammed the receiver down, and the line was dead. Peter sat down on the bed. Should he go?

El came out of the bathroom, towel-drying her hair. "Who was that?"

"Lavinia Armitage, the head librarian."

"At this hour? What does she want?"

"She's worried about Neal. Said I should go to the old church on Prospect Hill."

"St. Jude's? Why would he be in a boarded-up church at this hour?"

"Hell if I know." Peter tucked his shirt in and started downstairs. "And only one way to find out. I hope to be back soon."

The rain lashed the windscreen of his black Torino as he drove out the driveway. Terrible night to be out. On the drive over he pondered El's question. What possessed Neal to be at the church? Did he have another vision? And how did Lavinia know about it?

It was a short drive to the church. When Peter pulled up, he looked around for a car but the parking lot was empty. Did Neal even own a car? He lived so close to the university, he didn't need to. The church was dark. A few security lights on outside. This was crazy. Grumbling to himself, Peter pulled out a flashlight from the glove compartment, reached for his umbrella, and sprinted for the front door. The wind was so strong, it threatened to reverse his umbrella.

The porch roof sheltering the church entrance provided little relief from the rain. When Peter tested the door, he was surprised to find it unlocked. He folded up his umbrella and left it next to the door. Switching on his flashlight, he walked into the dark interior of the church.

"Neal? You here?" Peter paused at the entrance to listen. Only silence. He called again. His words echoed in the cavernous hall, mocking him. A sweep of the church with his flashlight revealed no sign of a wayward linguistics professor. Peter trained the light on the floor. There in the dust were clear imprints of running shoes. Were they Neal's? The size looked about right. They led down the nave toward the front of the church. Perhaps he was here, after all.

Peter followed the footprints to the front of the church and up the broad steps to the altar.

A Nikon camera lay on the otherwise bare altar. Even though the altar was covered with dust, there wasn't a speck on the camera. Peter picked it up. The area underneath the camera had been swiped, with traces of finger impressions left in the smudges. Neal had slender fingers which made a good match for the smudges.

The footprints ended at the altar, with none leading away from it. The altar was a solid block of stone. No hidden cavity that he could find.

Stymied, Peter shone his flashlight around the transept and ambulatory. Lavinia could be right. Perhaps Neal had been here. But where was he now?

 

* * *

_**Notes**_ _: Dark forces are at work in a church that's not proving to be the sanctuary Neal was counting on. Please join me next week for the final chapter, "A Riddle Wrapped Inside a Paradox." I'll also have news about my upcoming stories._

_Diana dipped into H.P. Lovecraft's story "The Haunter of the Dark" for inspiration when she wrote the scenes in the church on Prospect Hill. I wrote about the connection of Lovecraft's story to this chapter for our blog._

_Neal was plagued by a thunderstorm in this chapter. In the States we celebrated fireworks of a different sort this week over the 4th of July holiday. It was Penna Nomen who had the sparkly idea to incorporate fireworks into our stories, both literally and figuratively. She wrote about it this week in her blog post called "Fireworks and Romantic Sparks in Caffrey Conversation," and in the process demonstrated once more how fortunate I am to have her assistance with my stories._

_Penna will soon post her next vignette, called "Casual Day." It takes place immediately after her first vignette, "Spring Break," and features Neal's birthday celebration. I've been able to take a sneak peek at some of the scenes and can't wait to sample all the delights inside._

**_Blog_** _: Penna Nomen & Silbrith Conversation: [www.pennasilbrithconversation.blogspot.com](http://www.pennasilbrithconversation.blogspot.com)_  
  
**_Chapter Visuals and Music_** _: Arkham Files board at the Caffrey Conversation Pinterest website:[www.pinterest.com/caffreycon](http://www.pinterest.com/caffreycon)_


	6. A Riddle Wrapped Inside a Paradox

Any notion of time or distance was impossible. All Neal knew was that he was sinking ever deeper into a sea of terror.

The monstrosities prodded and gibbered—tearing at his clothes, gnawing his flesh. The dark sea was luminescent with phosphorescence. Some of the creatures were translucent and he caught glimpses of their internal organs underneath their flesh. Neal was beyond screaming. Exhausted by the constant attacks, he'd ceased to struggle long ago. He closed his eyes, attempting to block out the abominations around him, but there was no relief . . .

Why wasn't he dead? He must be fathoms beneath the surface by now. He'd taken his last gasp of air an eternity ago but he felt no need to breathe. Perhaps he was already dead. Hell couldn't be worse than this. He opened his eyes. He was sinking below the phosphorescence which was now a distant sickening glow high overhead.

As he sank ever deeper, eventually he left the creatures behind. No more claws ripping his flesh. No gibbers.

He was alone.

Neal gradually became aware he wasn't simply sinking, he was being dragged down. What force was it that could exert such a pull?

He soon found out when without warning he hit the rim of a powerful whirlpool which sent him spinning out of control. Overwhelmed by nausea, he closed his eyes to the dizzying blur of colors smeared together in a maelstrom of destruction.

How much time had passed? He must have blacked out for he no longer felt water on his skin but the rush of wind. He opened his eyes and discovered he was hurtling through the air as if he'd been plucked from the vortex by a monstrous hand. What new terror was this?

He was flung onto a sheet of ice, where he skidded helplessly on his back before careening into a boulder. There he lay gasping for air in an atmosphere so rarefied, so ice cold, he despaired of finding enough oxygen to fill his lungs. With each breath, the ice penetrated deeper into his core.

Neal raised a hand to his face. Already frost was forming on his skin. Ice clung to his eyelashes, making it difficult to see. He braced himself against the boulder to sit up and take in the desolate surroundings. He was near the edge of a plateau with jagged edges. Off in the distance toward the center was a large ice formation. Probably an illusion, but to his weary eyes it looked like a low flat-roofed building made of ice and surrounded by tall pillars—giant mammoth tusks of ice curving inward toward the structure.

The plateau surface was scored with deep trenches as if hot molten metal had been drizzled over the ice. No mountains to be seen. Overhead in a midnight-blue sky, stars hung shriveled and lifeless in the thin air. No recognizable constellations to guide him home.

Neal staggered to his knees then his feet. Amazingly his clothes, though now completely coated with ice, were intact. He'd expected to find gaping wounds, bloodstains, and tattered, but it was as if none of that had occurred. Was this all one long nightmare that would never end?

Wrapping his arms around his chest in an abortive attempt to cling to what little residual heat remained within his body, Neal stomped his feet to try to maintain circulation. He was a mere thirty feet or so from the drop-off. Neal moved forward cautiously but despite his care quickly slipped and fell on the treacherous ice. He resorted to crawling on his hands and knees.

The wall of ice below was a sheer escarpment with clouds midway down which obscured the bottom. Off in the distance the tips of a few jagged peaks jutted out from the clouds, but none was as high as his new prison. If the boulder hadn't stopped his slide, he would have plummeted off the edge to a certain death.

Shaking convulsively, Neal inched his way backward. The wind had been light when he arrived but was now increasing in irregular gusts which threatened to turn his bones into dry ice. He crawled toward the ice formation at the center. It could provide slight protection from the wind . . . if he didn't pass out before he reached it.

For Neal knew with fatalistic certainty that soon he would lose consciousness, never to revive. And if this were a nightmare, why should he fight it? Wouldn't it be better to simply close his eyes now, hoping to awake in his world? And if it weren't a nightmare, wouldn't it be better to die now rather than drag it out?

Logically that was the best solution. He stopped, closed his eyes, and abandoned himself to the ice and the wind . . .

Well, that sucked. He'd simply succeeded in making himself feel even colder. He hadn't thought that was possible.

_Okay, body, you want to keep on living? Get me to that ice palace. Good times ahead. Roaring fire in the fireplace. Mulled wine. Question: do I like mulled wine? I need to try it then I can die._

Lecturing, cajoling, mocking himself, he finally reached the structure. Lousy building. No door. How's a fellow supposed to enter and drink mulled wine without a door? By now his eyes were so coated with frost, he didn't attempt to keep them open. He crawled along the structure, relying on his fingers to find anything that could form a shelter. The legs on his jeans were shredded, but he was far too weak to stand up. One small consolation—it was so cold, his legs were numb to the pain.

Neal rounded one corner then inched his way along the far long side until he stretched out a hand and felt . . . nothing. Had he come to the end? Neal pried his eyes open. Squinting, he saw an opening in the wall. Was this salvation? Or a portal to something far worse?

He plunged forward and collapsed inside the cavity. He must have lost consciousness once more for the next thing he knew, he felt marginally warmer. A faint light was now visible at the end of a long tunnel. He had no memory of seeing it earlier. The tunnel was narrow, but the walls straight. This was no natural construction. It reminded him of the inside of an Egyptian tomb.

As he gathered his strength to stand up, he heard it again. The flute. The same melody that he'd heard in the church so long ago. He lay sprawled on the ice listening to it for several minutes, but it wouldn't let him stay there for long. It was compelling him forward. Neal crawled over to the wall and used it for support to pull himself up. Slowly he moved toward the light. The light grew ever brighter and now he could perceive glyphs carved into the ice. With a start he recognized several of them as being the same marks as those on the soapstones.

At the end of the tunnel, he paused, placing a hand on the wall for support. In front of him was a room about thirty feet square. The walls were covered with the same soapstone glyphs, but he ignored them. Standing in the middle was a lone figure—he dared not call it a man for his head was hidden under a yellow silk hood. He was playing an ebony flute with his back to Neal, but stopped upon Neal's arrival. He stood next to an altar of onyx carved with a filigree of grotesque shapes resembling the monsters in the abyss. A hermit priest in a monastery of ice.

He turned toward Neal, a yellow silk mask obscuring his face. His robe and gloves were black silk, etched with vermilion calligraphy. Placing the flute on the altar, he walked forward.

"Neal Carter, you sought me out and so I have come." The priest's voice was refined and gentle with a British accent. It sounded like one of his professors at Oxford. This must be a dream. The thought reassured him even if there were no waking from it.

"Who are you?" His voice was a frozen whisper, barely recognizable.

"I have many names, but I serve only one—he who sits on the black throne, the ruler of time and space. Some of my names you will learn later. For know this—you and I will have many more meetings."

At his words, Neal tried to back away, but found his shoes frozen solid to the ice floor. Neal stared with horror as the priest moved ever closer. His voluminous robe prevented any understanding of the form underneath.

"You find my monastery cold? Your tremors bore me." He flicked two gloved fingers, and within an instant Neal was no longer shaking. The hoary frost covering his body had hardened into a frozen shell, making any movement impossible. Then it struck him. The presence he'd felt that morning in the hospital. Neal knew with absolute certainty that the yellow-masked priest in front of him had been with him in the MRI chamber. And he knew who the priest was. Evil incarnate.

"Neal Carter, you dared find me. You will come again when I call. But until then, begone!"

He placed a gloved hand on Neal's chest over his heart and pressed into his flesh. His hand was a white-hot poker branding his heart. Neal screamed. The poker pressed relentlessly ever deeper until all went black.

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Still no sign of Neal. Peter stood in the side hallway and pondered his next move. He'd searched the church and the small cluster of auxiliary rooms, but all in vain. If Neal had been here, he'd probably returned home and was now sleeping safely in bed. He'd simply forgotten his camera. The lack of footprints leading away from the altar was troubling, but what other explanation was there?

And how did Peter know it was Neal who'd made the footprints in the first place? Lavinia didn't say he was in the church—just that Peter should go there. Confound that woman for being so cryptic. Peter vowed to return home after a quick final circuit.

A lightning bolt pierced the hall followed instantaneously by a deafening clap of thunder. That was too close for comfort. Had the roof caught on fire? Peter raced back to the nave to check for flames.

What was that?

Peter stopped and listened intently. There it was again. A low moan coming from the south side of the nave.

"Neal, is that you?" Peter sprinted over, sweeping the area with his flashlight until he spotted a pale shape at the base of one of the columns. Was that Neal? It looked more like a fallen statue. The figure was unrecognizable, apparently covered in white plaster. His hair, his face, his clothes were all coated with the stuff. Had he fallen from the balcony?

Neal was attempting to sit up. As Peter crouched beside him he realized with shock that Neal wasn't covered with plaster but a thick layer of hoary frost.

"Peter, is that really you?" His voice was a husky whisper. He was shaking so violently that the frost was quickly melting.

"In the flesh. My god, what happened to you?" His skin was cold as ice. Peter worked frantically to brush off the frost before further damage was done.

Neal clung to his arm with icy fingers. "Did you see him? The priest in the yellow mask?"

Peter looked around bewildered. "There's no one else here. Just take it easy. You're safe now." It was about sixty degrees outside. How had Neal gotten encased in frost? But he was in no state to answer. His teeth were chattering so badly, he could barely talk. "Can you walk?"

He nodded but made no attempt to stand. No breaks or injuries that Peter could see, but his jeans had been ripped to shreds. The skin underneath appeared to be undamaged. Neal had a rain jacket on but it was soaking wet as well as his clothes underneath. Peter took off his raincoat and wrapped it over his shoulders. Sighing gratefully, Neal folded himself into a huddled ball within the warmth of the coat.

"Sorry, kid, but rest comes later." Drawing a deep breath, Peter wrapped an arm under his shoulders to hoist him up. Neal was in no shape to help much, but Peter was relieved he didn't let out any cries of pain. Whatever had happened had transformed him into a human icicle but not a broken one.

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

"How is he?" Peter asked when El walked into the kitchen. She'd gone upstairs to check on Neal's progress, leaving Peter in charge of thawing a tray of brownies from the freezer.

"He's dressing now. His temperature is back to normal." El reached into the cabinet for the hot chocolate mix. "I still think you should have taken him to the emergency room, but he doesn't need to go there now."

"I know I should have, but he became so agitated when I mentioned it and he didn't have any apparent injury—"

"—And our house was closer than the hospital? Perhaps it's for the best. If someone else had taken the readings, I wouldn't have believed them. I've never heard of anyone's body temperature recovering so swiftly from an apparent case of hypothermia."

Neal's core temperature had been dangerously low when they arrived home. El had taken charge. She had him strip and wrap himself in blankets and ordered Peter to heat more in the dryer. Unbelievably within a half hour of the treatment, Neal had recovered sufficiently to take a warm bath.

After the events of the past couple of hours, no one felt like sleeping. So far Peter hadn't pressed for an explanation, but he hoped to get some answers over hot chocolate and brownies. "Did Neal give you any trouble about staying the night?" he asked.

"No, that's a relief. I don't have any early morning appointments and want to monitor his condition. Frankly, the thought crossed my mind that he might have been sleepwalking when he wound up at the church. It's hard to understand why he would have gone there otherwise, but how did he get so cold?"

Peter removed the brownies from the oven. "There's so much about this that's inexplicable. How did he mysteriously appear in the nave just after I'd searched it?"

"And what caused that inflammation on his chest?"

"You said it was over his heart?"

She nodded. "That's what particularly concerned me. It was a roughly four-inch patch resembling a first degree burn. It was bright scarlet when I first saw it but had already faded to a dull red by the end of my exam. The fact that it's fading so quickly is reassuring but he's agreed to have it evaluated. That was part of the compromise we worked out. I agreed on not insisting he immediately go to the hospital as long as he'd consent to testing next week."

"Does he show any symptoms of frostbite?"

"No, and that's even more remarkable. There's no blistering, discoloration, or numbness despite his body temperature having plummeted." She turned the fire down on the stove. "And that's not the only mystery. How did Lavinia know where he was?"

Footsteps on the stairs interrupted his reply. Neal walked into the kitchen, clad in one of Peter's Miskatonic sweatshirts and a pair of sweatpants. El had scrounged for the smallest she could find, but they were still swimming on him. It reminded Peter of the way Tom looked when he borrowed his clothes. Peter smiled when he saw the socks El had picked out for him. "Grab a seat. El's making hot chocolate, and there are more brownies than I can eat by myself."

"You should be in bed now, not taking care of me," Neal said, perching on a stool. "Sorry for all the trouble I caused you." His voice no longer sounded hoarse. No shivering either. To look at him, it was hard to believe he'd been in such distress only forty minutes ago.

"No apology necessary," El said, getting out the bag of marshmallows. "With my schedule, our hours are often out of the ordinary. Do you need an extra sweater?"

"No, I'm good, thanks."

Peter handed him a brownie. "Since that's the case, perhaps you feel like explaining why you were in that abandoned church?"

Neal took a breath, but before he could start, the doorbell rang.

El shot Peter a puzzled look. "At this hour? Were you expecting anyone?"

He shook his head. "Probably someone who's confused our house with someone else's." He glanced over at Neal as he got up. "Don't forget—you owe me an explanation."

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

When Peter left the kitchen, El gave Neal a mug of hot chocolate. "One marshmallow or two?"

"Is that for the number of lumps Peter wants to give me?"

She smiled. "Don't worry. Peter may growl like a grizzly bear but as Satchmo can attest, inside he's a panda."

Peter a panda? He'd take her word on it, but at the moment the grizzly side was front and center. Neal sipped his hot chocolate while he reflected on her comment. A little over an hour ago he'd been near death on a frozen wasteland. Now he was sitting in the kitchen of people he'd just met—acting like a member of their family, wearing Peter's clothes, friends with their dog. If this were a dream, he didn't want to wake up.

"Hey, everything okay?" she asked, concern written in her eyes.

"Yeah, amazingly enough," he said with a smile. "It's better than it's been in a long time."

"There you are!" Mozzie strode into the kitchen, looking frazzled. "I've been searching for you everywhere." When he saw El, he stopped in his tracks, his face melting into glowing admiration. "Hello, what ravishing goddess graces this domicile?"

"This is my wife, Elizabeth," Peter interjected firmly, coming up behind him, "and you'll be well advised to remember it."

He bent low over her hand and kissed it. "Dr. Dante Atwood at your service. You may call me Mozzie." He glanced around the kitchen. "Are you having a party? And you didn't invite me? I'm very fond of brownies. These aren't enhanced by any chance with a little Mary Jane?"

"Elizabeth's a doctor," Neal cautioned.

"Even better. She probably has access to—"

"Let's move this conversation into the living room," El suggested firmly. "Peter, you bring the brownies and the plates. Mozzie, would you like some hot chocolate?"

"Do you have any rum for it?"

"Of course. Peter will be happy to get you some, won't you, hon?"

Heaving a sigh, Peter walked over to the liquor cabinet as Mozzie called out, "I prefer dark, aged a minimum of four years, Guyana preferably, but Jamaican is acceptable."

El was right. Peter's growls did sound like a grizzly.

Mozzie gave him a nudge. "Handsome socks!"

Neal looked down at them: powder blue with goofy-looking dogs. He grinned and extended one foot to display it. "Thanks! They're Peter's."

"I must find where he acquired them," he said as they walked into the living room. "Perhaps they make them with cats. Betelgeuse wouldn't like me acquiring dog socks."

"I've seen Betelgeuse play with dogs. I bet she'd like Satchmo." When Satchmo heard his name he bounded over to rub against Neal's legs. "Betelgeuse is Mozzie's tabby," Neal explained, stroking him. "You like tabbies, don't you?"

"Not to interrupt, but to what do we owe the good fortune of your visit in the middle of the night?" Peter asked, handing Mozzie his mug.

"Lavinia."

Peter stared at him. "You, too?"

"Wait a minute," Neal jumped in. "You mean Lavinia contacted both of you?"

"That's why I was at the church," Peter confirmed.

Mozzie eyed him curiously. "She called me an hour ago with instructions."

"What'd she say?" Neal asked.

"You know Lavinia. No time for the niceties. Here's the gist:"

_— "He's not wearing it."_

_— "And good evening to you too, Lavinia. Who isn’t wearing what?"_

_— "The amulet, fool."_

_— "What amulet?"_ I asked, showing remarkable tolerance for her lack of manners and posing what I believed to be a natural question under the circumstances.

_— "Take it to him. Make sure he wears it."_

"Then she hung up. Fortunately I'm a master at the cryptic and incomprehensible. You'd mentioned once owning a pendant and I was able to find it in your dresser. After calculating the various permutations of your likely destinations, I'm pleased to say Peter's address was near the top of my list." Mozzie reached into his pocket and gave Neal the necklace. "Put it on immediately. I don't want Lavinia breathing down my neck." He turned to El. "Could you direct me to your phone? I'd like to call June and tell her Neal's okay."

"There's one in the kitchen you can use."

Peter sat do next to Neal on the couch while he slipped the pendant over his neck. "Why does Mozzie think this is what she meant?"

"It's the only pendant I own, but I never thought of it as an amulet." Neal picked it up and studied it. The disk was suspended from a pewter chain and had acquired a verdigris patina. It was roughly circular in shape and embossed with an intricate interlocking design of rounded coils. In the center of the disc was a small jewel. It resembled a diamond but was greenish-blue. How did Lavinia know about it?

El broke into his thoughts. "Where did you get it?"

"I don't know. This is the necklace I told you about this morning. It was around my neck when I was found. The police thought it was from my family and circulated photos of it, but no one ever came forward. I used to wear it, but then stopped." He paused. He had no desire to revisit those memories tonight. Kids got bullied for many reasons. A little boy wearing a strange pendant was an easy target. "I've always kept it safe. It's the only item I have that's possibly from my life before I was discovered, but it's never glowed in the dark or given me magic powers."

"You should wear it," she advised. "It can't do any harm."

"I agree," Peter seconded. "If Lavinia thinks it's important then it must be."

Neal made an effort to smooth down his hair. He'd towel dried it but it felt like it was sticking up in spikes. "I used to think Lavinia was just a harmless, if intimidating, eccentric, but is she somehow psychic? Diana asked me if I was. I should have told her about Lavinia."

Mozzie walked back into the room. "Don't question Lavinia. I never do. Your advisor Thaddeus never did. When she feels it's time, she'll tell you more, but until then you're wasting your efforts to understand how she obtains her knowledge. Believe me I've tried and I can be very persuasive." He took a seat in a chair next to the couch. Neal could smell the aroma of rum wafting from Mozzie's hot chocolate. "Your attire leads me to suspect you haven't been spending the evening discussing ancient languages. What did I miss?"

"I was asking him the same question when you arrived," Peter said. He turned to face Neal. "What possessed you to run off in the middle of the night to a derelict church?"

How was he going to explain that winged creature he'd seen? The more he thought about his actions, the harder it was to justify them, but after putting them through so much, he owed them. "I was working at home when—"

The doorbell rang, cutting off his explanation. Peter rolled his eyes and stood up. It was now past midnight.

El sighed. "Should I make more hot chocolate?"

"Lavinia?" Neal could easily hear Peter's voice from the living room. Why was she here? He'd never seen her away from the library. A moment later she strode into the room. Peter attempted to introduce her to El, but she ignored him and headed straight for Neal.

"Show me," she commanded.

"What? The amulet?" Neal reached inside his sweatshirt and pulled it out.

She sat down beside him and brought her nose to within an inch of the amulet as she scrutinized it for a long moment then without warning jabbed the fingers of her left hand into his right temple. It felt like they were drilling through his flesh into his brain. Neal reeled back on the cushions, his senses spinning. Dimly he heard El cry out in dismay but to no effect. A minute later she pulled away her fingers and the pressure stopped. "You're all right," she said brusquely.

She rose from the couch and took off her tweed coat, tossing it to Mozzie. "Now, who mentioned brandy?"

Peter shrugged as El looked over at him, wide-eyed. "Coming right up."

Lavinia scanned the room and pointed to a chair in the dining room. "That will do." Mozzie leaped up to move the chair over for her. She directed him to place it directly in front of Neal on the other side of the cocktail table. Sitting down, she opened her tapestry satchel and pulled out a small silver flask. "Wine glass," she ordered, snapping her fingers.

Neal viewed the proceedings with a mixture of curiosity and nervousness. Did she intend to drink brandy and wine at the same time? Was it absolutely necessary for her to sit so close to him? Satchmo, sitting at his feet, whined.

Lavinia poured out a small amount of emerald-green liquid into the glass and passed it to Neal. "Drink it." It looked like what she'd given him to drink in her office, but was darker in color.

"Stop," El ordered. "What is that? Neal's already been through enough of an ordeal."

Lavinia turned to face El. "You need not be concerned. It will do him good."

El appeared ready to raise further objections when Peter pulled her aside and took her into the dining room. They were muffling their voices and Neal couldn't make out the words. It was mainly Peter doing the talking. Lavinia waited impassively. Whatever Peter said must have provided sufficient reassurance because El nodded her acceptance when they returned.

Neal raised the glass and took a sip. The taste was quite different from the one in the library. That one had resembled a Riesling, but this one was much more potent, like a fragrant Chardonnay but resinous and woodsy. It smelled of the forest.

"Now you will tell me everything," Lavinia ordered.

And he did. The winged creature circling the church steeple, his mad dash through the streets of Arkham, the church, the ruby crystal, his descent down the staircase into the abyss, the frozen plateau, the priest ... As he related the sequence of events, he could see them playing out in his mind but they held no terror. He was merely a dispassionate observer watching from the sidelines.

No one interrupted him. For once, even Mozzie was speechless. Lavinia nodded several different times during his account and appeared satisfied. When he'd finished, she refilled his glass with more of the emerald wine and ordered him to drink it.

El was the first one to speak. "Neal was exposed for a much longer time to the soapstone this morning than ever before. Could that have a bearing?"

"Yes," Lavinia said emphatically, but refused to elaborate on what specifically. "Describe the circumstances."

As El reviewed the tests, Lavinia displayed an unusual familiarity with the procedures. Where had she acquired all her medical knowledge?

Afterward Lavinia studied her for a moment as a hawk would a mouse to see if it were worthy of being its dinner. "He wasn't injured by anything you did. You merely accelerated the process, but it was inevitable."

"What was inevitable?" Neal asked. A few details would be helpful. Should he now go around in an arctic parka in anticipation of future trips? Carry scuba gear instead of a briefcase?

A ghost of a smile touched Lavinia's lips. It was as if she could read his mind.

"What are we talking about?" Peter demanded. "Visions, travel through space, hallucinations?"

"Obviously Neal traveled through a wormhole into another universe," Mozzie said. "His senses were being distorted, so what he saw might not have been an accurate depiction."

El shook her head. "A dragon over Arkham? How do you explain that? Trust me, if there had actually been one present, we would be hearing news reports about it. And that box with the ruby he saw in the church? Peter said the dust was undisturbed on the altar, and there was no sign of a box."

"Maybe not in his confined four-dimensional world," Mozzie retorted, "but in the fifth or sixth dimension, it could have existed. You must open yourself up to the possibilities. How do you explain Neal being covered in frost?"

El made no answer, but Peter brought up the question Neal had been wondering about. "That frozen plateau Neal described reminds me of a place I've read about—Leng."

"Where's that?" El asked.

"The Plateau of Leng is a region of ice and desolation mentioned in ancient Sanskrit texts," Neal explained. "Thaddeus told me the _Necronomicon_ also has a passage about it. Supposedly it's the location of an ancient monastery where the High Priest Not To Be Described dwells."

"Do you think that's where you were?" Mozzie asked. "Your figure in the yellow silk mask was that priest?"

Neal looked over to Lavinia. Was he on that dreaded plateau? Her face was inscrutable.

"You mentioned the priest talked about someone on a black throne," Peter said. "I've heard that before."

Neal nodded. "The ruler of time and space? Those are references to Azathoth."

"That's the god you mentioned yesterday," Mozzie said excitedly. "The creator of all others—the one who dwelt in the center of the universe in a region of chaos."

Peter looked over at Lavinia. "How concerned should we be about what the priest said?"

She refused to answer.

El glanced around at all of them. "Surely you don't believe any of this actually happened? Neal said he was familiar with the legends. And that's what they are—simply legends."

"What to you is a legend is someone else's reality," Mozzie chided. "Einstein predicted the existence of black holes in his general theory of relativity. Who knows what may lurk in the center of a black hole? The black throne may be another name for a black hole."

And so the debate continued. The viewpoints were not unpredictable. Mozzie was a champion of Neal being capable of viewing unseen dimensions and having traveled into a parallel universe. El believed they'd all been dreams or hallucinations. Peter didn't express an opinion but was skeptical. No one could offer any rational explanation of why Neal had been covered in frost although El came the closest when she hypothesized a sudden drop of atmospheric pressure having produced the effect.

Lavinia refused to speculate on what had occurred, her face remaining unreadable throughout the discussion. After about fifteen minutes, she stood up abruptly and announced her departure.

Neal walked her to the door and helped her on with her coat. She placed her hand on the doorknob then turned to face him. "Wear the amulet and you need not fear returning to the plateau."

That was the most explicit Lavinia had ever been. Eager to learn more, Neal pressed her. "The priest in the yellow silk mask—I felt him next to me in the MRI chamber this morning. Is that possible? "

She clamped her lips together in a frown. "Anything is possible. _Existence, reality, illusion_ —those are relative terms. Don't lose yourself in semantics. I seldom advise but I will tell you this. Avoid the MRI chamber." She considered for a moment. "The priest wears a silk mask to disguise his nature. Your amulet also acts as a mask. It will serve you well." With that she departed, leaving him to ponder her words.

When Neal returned to the living room, Mozzie and El were in a heated debate about the injuries he'd remembered having sustained. Mozzie believed that when Neal had been transported to a different universe, a ghost image had been left behind which was used to reformulate his body when he returned. El was forceful in her rebuttal, accusing him of relying on transporter concepts developed for Star Trek. She felt he'd likely ripped his jeans when he was sleepwalking around the church.

When Mozzie left, El urged Neal to go to bed, but his mind was too active for sleep. He helped them carry the dishes into the kitchen. When he offered to help wash, they politely shooed him away.

Did they actually think he could sleep after all that had happened? He retreated to their dining room and stood by the glass doors leading outside to their patio. He longed to escape outside but the rain was still falling. No stars in the sky to anchor him.

_You will come again when I call_ , the priest had said. Those words continued to haunt him. Neal shivered and wrapped his arms around his chest. Unbidden, his hand reached for his amulet. He pulled it out from under his sweatshirt and wrapped his fingers around it. It might have been his imagination but he felt a little warmth flow through his body.

An amulet. All these years he'd possessed it, not knowing what it was. How effective would it be against the priest in the yellow silk mask? If he'd worn it this evening, how different would the events have been?

"Can't sleep?"

Neal turned to face Peter who had come up behind him. "Too many emotions," he admitted. "Confusion over what actually occurred . . . Curiosity about what Lavinia knows."

"Fear?"

"Yeah," he admitted quietly. "That, too. I find myself wishing it was simply a nightmare."

"But you don't believe it was, do you?"

He shook his head. "And Lavinia doesn't seem to think so either. You know the song 'White Rabbit' by Grace Slick? It keeps playing in my head."

"You feel you were like Alice dropping down the rabbit hole?"

"A little, but it was no Wonderland down there. You must have talked about it in the kitchen. Does Elizabeth think I'm schizophrenic?" Neal tried to read his facial expression. "No need to sugarcoat it."

Peter gestured for him to take a seat at the dining room table, and he sat down beside Neal. El was still in the kitchen but Neal didn't mind if she overheard. He was intruding on her life, too. "Yes, we discussed it and honestly, El hasn't formed an opinion yet. Schizophrenia can't be diagnosed after a few observations. It takes months of careful observation and analysis. And your case presents too many anomalies which prevent labeling."

"I'm not sure if I should feel reassured by that or not."

"I can readily understand that. The events of the past few days are a riddle wrapped inside a paradox. For instance, your visions of ghasts and winged creatures—you freely admit they're difficult to accept. But where did the frost come from that coated you? I saw that and no one is accusing me of hallucinating. Why were there no footprints leading away from the altar? The anomalies in your medical tests are a puzzle. Then there's Lavinia. Who knows what's going on with her? So I'd say the jury's still out."

"Mozzie warned me I'd be considered a psychopath. That you're reserving judgment is a positive and I appreciate it."

"Did Mozzie ever describe how he might be viewed? Or is having far-fetched ideas standard operating procedure for the Karl Jansky Professor of Astrophysics?"

Neal smiled at how his friend would have reacted to Peter's question. "He takes pride in them and laughs at the scoffers."

Peter shrugged. "Not a bad strategy to adopt." He paused for a moment. "I understand why you ran to the church. You wanted documentation."

Neal nodded.

"But you could have done us both a big favor if you'd called me first. I would have gone with you. I could have seen what happened when you approached the altar. Now we'll never know."

Neal eyed him skeptically. "Disturb your evening with a wild tale of a dragon flying over Arkham? You would have thought I was crazy."

"Maybe, but I would have been curious to figure out what you actually were seeing. Do you think you could give me a call me next time? Because there will be a next time, of that I'm sure. If I'm not around and it's essential you pull some foolhardy stunt that won't wait, you could call Mozzie, or even Lavinia if you insist—"

"Please—anything but that!" Neal appreciated his attempt to lighten the mood and tried to match it. "I realize I kinda blew it."

"Yeah, you kinda did. Just think if I'd been present and seen you go _poof_ in the church how different the conversation would be right now."

Neal grinned. "So you're willing to acknowledge the possibility of _poofing_?"

"I am, though I'm not sure I'm ready to tell Diana yet."

Neal chewed on his words. He'd never for a moment considered calling Peter. He could hear in his head how the conversation would have gone. Despite his disclaimer, Peter would have considered him drunk or crazy or both. And perhaps that was for the best. What right did he have to drag another person into whatever was going on with him?

Peter broke into his musings. "So why are you shutting yourself off? I saw those walls going up in the living room. I'll admit it got a little heated but why didn't you jump in and add your voice to the discussion? And this is your turn to be honest."

Peter deserved the truth, but Neal wasn't sure he knew it himself. "I guess I keep asking myself _why_? A few days ago you didn't know who I was. I sought you out, thinking you could tell me something about the soapstone I was dreaming about, and you did. But now you can back away. Don't get me wrong—I'm immensely grateful for all you've done. But why are you willing to get involved in this—I don't even know what to call it—mystery, insanity?"

Peter paused before replying. "You ask a good question. I don't know if it's fate or maybe Lavinia who brought us together, but something did. Yes, there's a mystery wrapped up in explaining what your visions are, but there's more than that. You're an expert in ancient languages. You must have read the passages that hint of a civilization that predates all the earliest known ones."

Neal nodded. "Ancient winged beings. An early advanced technology. Tales of sophisticated cities which have never been discovered."

"I've found potsherds with curious marks and symbols resembling starfish in some of the most ancient sites on earth. That image in the Moroccan tomb that I consulted with Lavinia about? It was a creature with starfish-like appendages. These starfish-shaped soapstones are apparently central to the mystery that not only affects you but is connected to a string of murders. What if the stones are clues to an unknown civilization? This type of starfish is unique among ancient Egyptian artifacts. The Egyptians didn't begin to use the star as a symbol until the Old Kingdom, and then it was a narrow spindly star, not at all like the soapstone I found. What civilization does it come from? The _Necronomicon_ references an early mythic race. It calls them the Elder Ones. What if they're not a myth? The scientist in me can't help but seek answers."

"You're telling me I need to look at the bigger picture."

"Exactly. You, me, Mozzie, El, Cyrus—we all bring different skills to the table. I'm going to put aside for now your visions and these creatures you're seeing. That's not to say I don't believe you. It's simply I don't have any way of evaluating their validity. Let's focus on the areas for which we do have tangible evidence." He began ticking off on his fingers. "Those soapstones. The others may have _poofed_ , but we have mine as well as the photographs. There may be more to discovered, and you've got your work cut out for you to decipher them. You also have the sketch of the soapstone you dreamed about. How does it relate to the others? Then there's algolnium. What are its properties? Is it truly a new element? Those are all achievable goals."

"And we have the evidence contained in the vault," Neal added. "The crystal manuscript, the early sources, the Shrewsbury notes and journals, the _Necronomicon_." His words trailed off as he mulled over Peter's words. The opportunity to work on a team to discover lost civilizations was the chance of a lifetime. But what was even more astonishing was that after all that had happened, Peter didn't appear to be concerned that Neal would be more of a liability than an asset. Neal wished he could be as certain.

Peter added quietly, "I know you're scared. Who wouldn't be after what you went through? Would you like to know what Lavinia told me yesterday morning?"

"I thought you were supposed to keep that private."

"Lavinia's advice is subject to reinterpretation. She thought you weren't ready, but after what you experienced tonight, I believe you have the right to know. She told me not to dismiss your visions, your dreams, even those ghasts you were seeing. I challenged her, asking if they were real and she gave a cryptic non-answer about the meaning of the word _real_. She went on to say that your path forward would be a dangerous one and that you couldn't do it alone. She said you and I are intertwined in some way, and if I turn my back on you, it will be at my peril." Peter shrugged. "I've found Lavinia's advice to be sound in the past even if at times difficult to comprehend. This was one of the least ambiguous explanations I've ever heard her make. So, what do you say? You willing to sign up?"

"Shelve the personal questions and focus on the science?" Neal nodded, feeling happier than he had in a long time.

Peter smiled in approval. "But I must warn you this new partnership comes with some rules. The most important is no more shutting me out. You see a dragon, a unicorn, or whatever, you let me know. Otherwise you'll just drive me crazy and El won't like that."

Neal couldn't resist a snort. "Check. Any unicorns I see, you'll be the first to know. Any other stipulations?"

Peter made a show of stroking his chin. "Just a few," he said, adopting a solemn tone. "In any decision, as senior faculty member, I'm always the tie-breaker. Like right now. You need to hit the sack, and no more excuses. Tomorrow we both have classes to teach and mysteries to investigate." Peter matched his words with action, standing up and pulling out Neal's chair before he had a chance to object.

"Wait a minute? Aren't I the one with the visions? Human Geiger counter and algolnium sniffer? I think those attributes quite possibly trump any seniority privileges."

Peter's eyes crinkled. "Is that so? Getting cocky are you?"

Neal grinned. "Maybe a little."

"Good. I like a challenge."

"Are you two done?" El asked, walking in from the kitchen. Her timing was suspiciously convenient. Neal wagered she'd heard practically the entire discussion. "I hereby declare this evening a wrap."

 

* * *

**_Notes_** _: To describe the actions of the past few days, Peter modified a quotation by Winston Churchill: "I cannot forecast to you the action of Russia. It is a riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma; but perhaps there is a key. That key is Russian national interest." Peter feels Neal is the key to unlock the mystery swirling around them. Their investigations continue in Agent Diana Berrigan's next story, Arkham Files: The Locked Room, but Diana now needs to resume her duties with the White Collar team. She's finished writing the draft for the Locked Room but will be too busy working on cases to post it until after Raphael's Dragon._

_In the next couple of weeks, Penna Nomen will post her third vignette— April Fools' Day. I'll be back on July 27 with Whispers in the Night, a 3-chapter tale about what happens when an incident that starts off sounding like a joke turns into something far more sinister. The story includes Dean and Sam Winchester from the TV series Supernatural. After that, the cybercriminal Azathoth returns to plague Neal and Peter in Raphael's Dragon. White Collar team members will have read Visions from Beyond and will be commenting on it during the story._

_Once Raphael's Dragon is complete, Diana and I will begin posting The Locked Room. The action picks up 10 days after the end of Visions from Beyond. Neal and Peter learn more about ghasts and the winged creature Neal saw flying over Arkham while Elizabeth makes a startling discovery about Neal. Another crime leads to fresh disclosures, a corner of the veil surrounding Lavinia is lifted, and more will be revealed about the significance of the ruby crystal and the soapstone._

_The subject of my blog this week is the Plateau of Leng, a Lovecraft creation. Diana was inspired by it as well as an incident which took place in The Dreamer. Penna wrote about the secrets that Neal keeps in a post called "Lies and Secrets." If you're curious about what Neal's amulet looks like, it's pinned to the Arkham Files Pinterest board._

_Thanks for reading and special thanks to all of you who've left comments. Writing Arkham Files was an experiment I don't think I ever would have attempted without Penna's encouragement and assistance. Her and your participation made this story such a pleasurable experience for me. I hope it was for you as well._

**_Blog_** _: Penna Nomen & Silbrith Conversation: [www.pennasilbrithconversation.blogspot.com](http://www.pennasilbrithconversation.blogspot.com)_  
  
**_Chapter Visuals and Music_** _: Arkham Files board at the Caffrey Conversation Pinterest website:[www.pinterest.com/caffreycon](http://www.pinterest.com/caffreycon)_


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